


Let the Altars Shine

by tiptoe39



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 10:30:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 45
Words: 70,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the sake of his family, Dean agrees to marry an angel he's never seen. He's not expecting true love, nor to uncover the mystery behind why the angels are taking husbands in the first place. But sometimes in marriage, the unexpected happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

He doesn’t know what to think. It is of course a privilege to be wedded to an angel, and it will give Dean’s family the leg up the social ladder they need. And if that were just Dad and him, Dean would be all complaints. But it’s for Mom too, and more importantly for Sammy, and if his little brother’s future hangs in the balance then there’s nothing he won’t do.

Still, trepidation weighs him down as he sits in the small salon, wearing his best suit, about to be introduced to his new husband.

The wedding is done on paper, an agreement between families, and there’s no ceremony. What there is is a formal, private introduction, after the deed is done, before which Dean’s parents have drilled into him the proper etiquette and respect with which to address an angel. Thus the suit, which Dean normally wouldn’t be caught dead in. Thus the sitting down, rather than pacing the floor as he’d rather be doing, and just waiting for the arrival of his betrothed.

The door opens. Dean sits stock still. _For Sammy,_ he tells himself. _Do it for Sammy._

“Excuse me.” The voice is harsh, grating. “Is there a men’s room in here?”

Dean’s eyes widen, and he doubles over laughing. “Dude, you are _so_ lost.”

The man steps through the door. He’s holding himself so stiffly, Dean’s bladder hurts in sympathy. “I’m afraid I might be. Do you know where the nearest men’s room is?”

Dean frowns. “I think it’s down the hall a ways. Around the corner and down the stairs, something like that.”

“I’ll never make it.” The man’s so panicked his eyes are wide. He’s adorable, actually, like a lost puppy. What a welcome distraction at a time like this. Even though Dean’s starting to fear for the carpet.

“Hold it in, dude.” He gets up from his seat and peeks behind the door at the corner of the small room. “I think— yeah. There’s one here.”

“Oh!” The relief on the man’s face is palpable. Dean’s face is twitching with a smile that wants to break free. “Do you mind if I—”

“Go ahead.” Dean waves him on. The man hurries across the carpet and through the door. He closes it behind him and Dean listens with amusement as the man relieves himself and sighs.

“This always happens,” the man confesses. “My bladder gets weak when I’m anxious.”

“It’s not a problem,” Dean says, still trying to hold back a snort. “But you better hurry out of here. I’m waiting for someone.”

“I’m aware.” The man washes his hands while Dean tries to fit his brain around that comment. He emerges, still shaking water off his hands, and gives a slight smile. “Now that that’s done with… Hello, Dean.”

Dean very nearly pees in _his_ pants.


	2. Part One

Dean shoots to his feet. “You?”

“My name is Castiel.” The awkwardness is still there, but there’s a kind of grace to the man’s movements now, as he emerges from the bathroom doorway to stand in front of Dean. “I understand we have been given to each other as husbands. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“You— you—” All of the etiquette training has drained from Dean’s brain in one fell swoop. “Wait, you can’t be an angel. Angels don’t pee.”

And Dean goes pale. That was the first thing he said to his new husband? Well, not the first thing. But close enough.

“We take human vessels,” Castiel says. “We are subject to human limitations and human desires.”

Dean flushes, less at the innuendo than at his own idiocy in not recognizing this. And now that he looks closely, it’s patently obvious that Castiel is an angel. It’s in the odd glow that hovers around him, the knowing way he meets Dean’s eyes. It was there even before, when he stood awkwardly in the doorway looking around desperately and holding his legs together. Just a sort of weird nobility…

and now HE has to go to the bathroom. Damn it.

“Can you excuse me for a second?” he asks, feeling like a fool.

In the safe, closeted space of the bathroom, he sighs as he takes care of business, then stares at himself in the mirror. A fancy suit can only go so far to hide the sleepless nights, the worry. Knowing soon his body, and his time, soon wouldn’t be his own, and knowing he had to do it anyway. God, how he wanted to party his head off in those last few days. But they said an angel could smell the odor of impropriety on your skin. If you misbehaved, it would be noticed. And while Dean’s parents had surely laid bare their son’s earlier sins on the arrangement application, he alone would be responsible for anything he did since then. It would be on his head if the angel found him lacking and cancelled the marriage. So Dean stayed put, and he looked like hell. A glass of beer would have done so much more toward relaxing him.

But angels don’t drink. They can’t tolerate sin of any kind. At least, that’s what Dean’s heard, and he sighs loudly and takes a good long look at a perfectly clean and pure Dean Winchester in the mirror.

It looks like hell.

He turns to open the door and finds he can’t. He pushes, but it won’t budge. Panic rising up in his throat, he rattles the doorknob, knocks on the door. What the hell? Is this some sort of angelic punishment for treating Castiel like he would any other human? He thinks so, and terror’s crawling in his gut, whispering, you screwed this up. You screwed this up so badly, and it’s Sam and Mom and Dad who are gonna pay.

Then the voice comes.

“Can we talk like this?” Castiel says. “Just for a few minutes?”

Dean realizes then that the door is stuck because Castiel’s leaning heavily against it. Castiel’s voice is close and hushed, and Dean imagines his chest rumbling with the noise, his head tipped back. It’s a gorgeous image, actually. Now that he has time to recall the image of Castiel, he almost likes it. He leans against the door himself, pressing his cheek to the cool wood.

“Sure,” he says. “You’re the angel. Whatever you want.”

“I’m asking if it’s all right with you,” Castiel says. “I thought it might be easier to get to know each other without having to stare at each other. At least, that’s what I thought. I— I truly am nervous, Dean. My life has changed today, too.”

Dean blinks. Revelation after revelation today. Angels not only pee, they freak out. Who knew.

“It’s cool,” he answers softly. “So what do we say first? Hi, my name is Dean Winchester, I’m an Aquarius?” And then he remembers what he was supposed to say. “I guess I’m supposed to thank you for accepting me, despite my flaws. I know I’m not… a huge prize.”

Castiel catches a soft breath. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he says finally, and his voice has such finality in it that Dean’s heart is beating in his throat all of a sudden. He could still blow this. Castiel is just waiting to judge him.

There’s a silence. Dean clears his throat. “So what do we do now?”

Castiel’s answer is immediate and jarring. “I take you home.”


	3. Part Three

Dean slumps against the bathroom door, slides down so he’s sitting instead of standing. “Home?” he echoes. “Never going home again.”  
  
“Yes, you will.” The voice is bright, and it’s right behind him. Castiel has knelt or sat on the other side of the door. “Your new home will be a good place. I’ll treat you like a treasured husband. I promise.” In his guttural voice, the words sound almost comical in their innocence.  
  
Dean wants to laugh sardonically, wants to retort that Castiel doesn’t even know him yet, but the thought of home has stilled his tongue. He needs to go along with this, needs to give this angel whatever he wants. He turns, lays a palm against the wooden door. “Don’t worry about it,” he forces himself to say. “I’m sure it’ll be great.”

  


“Dean.” There’s such urgency in Castiel’s tone. “I promise you.”  
  
Dean gets to his feet, shakes himself off. “So do I get to come out now, or are you just going to teleport the whole bathroom into your McMansion?”  
  
No answer, just a muffled groan as Castiel gets to his feet. He takes in a breath so sharp that Dean can hear it from behind the door. “By all means,” he says.  
  
Dean opens the door. The room is brightly lit, and for an instant Castiel’s a silhouette with white edges.  
  
He steps forward. The room fades, and Castiel is resolved into colors again. Dean gets a good look at him, now: earnest eyes and tense brow, a ruffle of dark hair and a worn suit beneath a trenchcoat. (Apparently angels also get rained on.) And still that soft aura, indefinable, that hangs over him and makes him something more than just human.  
  
He looks inviting. And yet he represents everything that Dean resents. Choices stolen. Sacrifices made. A life offered him, instead of one he builds for himself. Dean wants very badly to hate him right now.  
  
Castiel holds out both hands. “Dean,” he urges.  
  
No, it’s never an entreaty when an angel speaks, it’s always an order. Dean’s had this drummed into his head.  
  
He reaches out, slides his hands into Castiel’s, and a shock of warmth assaults his fingertips, like that glowing aura is spreading to him. It travels up his arms, to his shoulders, and for an instant there are not two people in the room, there is one. Dean and Castiel. Latched together hand-to-hand, alight with the same radiance.  
  
Then it’s gone again. Their flesh is just flesh where it touches. Dean’s jaw drops, but he can’t think of a thing to say.  
  
Castiel is unmoved. “Shall we?” he says.  
  
Dean’s still tingling. His fingers flex in the cradle of Castiel’s hands. “What was that?”  
  
“What was—” Castiel tilts his head, pauses, and then turns away, dropping one of Dean’s hands. He heads for the doorway. “Let’s go.”  
  
“Wait a sec.” Dean’s head is doing sloping turns and leaps that make the carpet beneath him feel as though it’s tilting. “What was—”  
  
Castiel turns back to face him, and his eyes flash cold ice. “I said, let’s go, Dean.”  
  
Dumbfounded, Dean nods. If Castiel doesn’t want to tell him, he doesn’t get to know. That’s the way it works.  
  
They walk hand-in-hand through the hall, down to the lobby of the hotel where their arranged meeting has taken place. A mess of humans and angels, some couples, some not, turn to look at them as they go by. Dean swallows hard. He never likes being the center of attention like this. He prefers to do his own thing, stay in the dark. Listen to music, drink beer—  
  
—shit. No more drinking beer. For that matter, no more swearing, either. He’s going straight to hell, isn’t he? Castiel’s dream house is going to be hell.  
  
The limo awaits them. The driver smiles graciously. Dean clambers in after Castiel, leans back on the seat, and closes his eyes. What’s the use of enjoying a limo without using the mini-bar?  
  
Castiel drops his hand, and he opens one eye to peek over. He’s got his chin in his hands and is gazing out the window, clearly lost in a faraway thought.  
  
Looks like Dean’s in the dark and alone again. He might as well enjoy it while it lasts. He shuts his eyes again.


	4. Part Four

Dean’s well ensconced in his land of self-pity by the time the limo rolls to a stop, and he opens his eyes to see the low ceiling of the limousine and promptly is thrust further into a funk.

It all drains away when the driver opens the door and lets him out in front of the house.

“Oh, my God,” Dean whispers. His eyes won’t go wide enough to take the whole thing in. “This is— I’ve never seen a house this big in my life.”

  
“I suppose you wouldn’t.” Castiel has exited the limo behind him and is standing a few steps to his right, not invading his space, respectful. It’s a far cry from his seizing of Dean’s hand and their parade through the hotel lobby. Not that Dean’s measuring the distance, not when he’s faced with something that could house an entire city block’s worth of people.

“Why is it so big?” he asked. “Do you live in there all alone?”

“Not anymore,” Castiel murmured, and Dean turned to face him.

Lit by the sun, he was beautiful. Dean felt a lurch of hope, jarred loose from beneath all the bitterness, fly up through him. “Even with the two of us,” he said dully, “it’s really big. I’m going to get lost.”

“I will stay by your side until you’re accustomed,” Castiel replied. Dean’s heart jumped. It would be just the two of them, in this big house, and he’d be required to do whatever the angel wanted. The knowledge of that — of its scope — scared him. This wasn’t a partnership, this was marriage, and that meant a wedding night.

“Dean.” A hand slipped into his. “Come with me. I’ll show you your room.”

They were across the front lawn and up the stairs toward the front door when it finally clicked. “My room?”

“I thought you would want your privacy,” Castiel said.

“You’re not what I expected,” Dean blurted out.

Castiel opened the door for him. “And what did you expect, Dean?”

“I—” Dean lost his words. His eyes swept around the grand foyer of the building, the marble steps subtly curling to the side at the top, the chandelier and the sunlight pouring in from the huge windows. It was as if he’d entered a world of white and gold. His eyes hurt from the brightness, and his gut churned from the vastness. He was out of his depth, out of his league. He’d never survive.

“Come,” Castiel said gently, and Dean obeyed the tug of his hand and followed.

He was led up the staircase, onto a landing that looked down on the foyer, then shuttled through a hallway inlaid with lush green carpeting. Past a few rooms, then the hallway became a walkway once again looking down on a hardwood floor and myriad bookshelves, a wraparound couch and several coffee tables. It looked more like a public library than a private one, Dean thought with wonder. Above, a wide skylight brought in natural light.

At last they reached the end of the hallway, and Castiel opened a thick oak door on the right-hand side. “Your room,” he said.

Dean stepped through and caught his breath. This time not because it was grandiose, but because it wasn’t. The bed, the desk and chairs, the modest window — it all spoke of simplicity, and there was something homey in it, as though Dean had been here long ago and had forgotten. His things had already been sent over, sparse as they were, and his favorite leather jacket occupied a place of honor on a coat rack near the closet.

“This is awesome,” he murmured. “Thanks.”

“I’m in the next room,” Castiel said. “So anything you need, you can come to me, day or night.” He backed up toward the hallway.

“What about you?”

Castiel stopped. Dean turned, reached out and caught Castiel’s hand loosely. His brow furrowed, and he spoke carefully. “Castiel.” The word felt long and bulky on his tongue. “What are you going to need from me?”


	5. Part Five

Castiel’s eyes darken with confusion. “What do I need?” he echoes. “I need you, Dean. I need a husband. I thought that was obvious.”

“But why? I mean, you’re angels. What do we have that you don’t?”

“Angels feel loneliness.” Castiel is so close now that Dean can feel his breath. His eyes are locked like a vise on Dean’s, forcing them to look back. “We long for companionship. Is that so difficult to understand?”

“Yeah, kind of.” Frustration starts to simmer inside Dean. “To promise to take care of my whole family, just so I’ll play house with you? I mean, I get it that you can’t have sex unless you’re married, because you’re not built to sin. But can’t you marry other angels? Or at least girls?”

At this, Castiel looks away. Tension drives like a rail through his spine.

“You must never ask that question,” he says. His voice is cold. “Whatever you do, do not ever ask that question.”

  
At once he is piteous and terrifying, and Dean doesn’t know what to make of it. The desire to console Castiel is just as strong as the desire to run away. “Okay,” he says, raising his palms. “Okay, I won’t ask.”

He’s struck at once by how casual he’s been with Castiel. With all the etiquette and lessons his parents have pushed on him, when Castiel asks him a question, Dean’s responded honestly. And when Dean’s had something to ask, he’s asked. Even now, he should be kneeling, or at least bowing, and apologizing profusely. But this is all he can do, and strangely enough, it’s all he thinks Castiel wants him to do.

“Hey,” he says after a moment. “Am I doing all right? Am I being, I don’t know, polite enough?”

Castiel’s gaze returns to him. His pose has lost its severity. “You’re perfect,” he says, aching sincerity in his voice. “Just as you are.”

Dean’s heart leaps to his throat. He’s instantly embarrassed. “Because,” he adds awkwardly, “because if I screw up, I need to know, okay? Or I won’t know to fix it.”

Castiel smiles. It’s a full smile, not the half-lit glimpses of smiles he’s given Dean before. He looks human now, like the guy who came in nervously looking for the restroom, the one Dean had really liked. Before he found out who he was. “There is nothing to fix,” he says.

Now Dean’s at a loss. He doesn’t know what to think, he doesn’t know who this man or angel or whatever standing in front of him is, really. “Yeah, but I don’t… I don’t know what you want from me.” His eyes search Castiel’s for an answer.

“What I want?” The smile quirks. “What I want is utterly different from what I need, you know.”

Dean’s eyes go round. “Oh.”

“No,” Castiel says immediately, then, “Well, yes, but… not right now. Not before you are ready.”

It’s too much of a gift, and Dean’s heart aches. Castiel has ensured the security of the people he loves most, has given him this room that speaks to him so much, this lifestyle, and he doesn’t want to take anything for himself? How is he even possible?

In the moment he pauses, Castiel has shaken his head and begun to withdraw. Dean notices and makes a soft noise in his throat, wanting to stop him, not knowing why or how.

“I… I want to give you something, though,” he hears himself say. Castiel’s eyes light up, gratified. And at once it makes sense to Dean. Castiel wants to give things to him. Of course he is waiting for Dean to want to give something back.

“Are you sure?” Castiel says. His voice is low and quiet.

“Yeah. I mean, I’m not ready for— that, but—”

His voice has gone hoarse and uncooperative. Screw talking. Dean walks over, takes Castiel’s face in his hands. Where their skin comes together it’s all warmth and light. That glow is whiting out his vision.

He kisses Castiel softly, slow, getting used to the feel of his lips. His mouth purses around the ridge of Castiel’s pouting lower lip. One of his hands threads softly through the fringe of Castiel’s hair. It’s good, soft and wet and warm, like a kiss ought to be. At least, like this kiss ought to be. Castiel’s eyelashes flutter briefly against his cheek as he pulls away.

And wow, the feeling looking at Castiel now. It’s like someone is beating a tiny drum just behind his ribs. It’s too quick, too powerful to be the simple throbbing of his heart.

Castiel touches two fingers to his own lips, surprised. Then he smiles again. When he speaks, for the first time, he sounds truly shaken.

“I have something for you,” he says. “It’s in my bedroom. Let me get it—”

Dean, on the other hand, is confident for the first time since the day began. “It’s cool,” he says. “I’ll come in there with you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure. You said not till I’m ready, right? So, I don’t have anything to worry about?”

“Of course not.” Castiel is trying to bite back a wider grin. The excitement on his face is palpable. “Come on.”


	6. Part Six

“I must warn you,” Castiel says as they cross the hallway to his room, “I may have been overly optimistic.”

“How’s that? _Oh._ ” Dean has his answer the minute the door swings open. Rose petals lie  in a delicate spray on the bed — a sturdy, four-poster affair, with a white comforter that less lies on the bed than floats there, cloudlike. Dean is reminded of TV commercials for hotels with “heavenly beds.” Of course an angel’s bed would look heavenly.

Castiel walks to the bed and picks up a rose petal. “They don’t seem to be your style,” he says ruefully, turning it slowly between thumb and forefinger.

  


“Yeah, not quite.” Dean looks around the room, taking in the space where Castiel sleeps. It’s airy, fresh, with an unruly shag carpet underfoot and a couple of simple oak furnishings. It is a room waiting for personality, and Dean wonders why Castiel has not done more with it. His own room is so homey and suits him so well. Maybe Castiel has hoped that, in time, Dean would bring his things, and his character, in to paint this blank slate.

And then his eye falls on the table near the window. Two chairs, one champagne flute, and… “Hey, I thought you angels couldn’t get near alcohol.”

“Wine was used as a holy sacrament in the old days,” Castiel replies. “The consumption of alcohol has become so intermingled with sin that we can’t drink it. It is sour and painful on our tongues. But I see no reason you should have to abstain.”

“Wow.” Dean doesn’t know what to do, so he laughs, rubbing his forehead with one palm as though he can massage this new knowledge into his skull. “I gotta tell, you, Cas, you are nothing like what I expected.”

Castiel’s rueful expression fades into mirth. “I’d like to know more about what you expected.”

“Slavery, mostly,” Dean blurts out, and Castiel’s face falls. “Look, I’m glad I was wrong. But the fact is, if it weren’t for my family needing the money, I wouldn’t be here. You call it marriage, but basically, you’re buying us.”

“I know.” Taking a breath, Castiel wavers over the next word. “And I am aware that the situation is not… entirely voluntary. And I will keep my word. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, besides stay here with me.” He swallows. “And if it means anything, just your presence means the world to me.”

His eyes are gleaming with mixed hope and hurt, and Dean has to step forward, close the gap between them. “I like you, though,” he says, raising one hand to cup Castiel’s jaw. “And maybe, even if this hadn’t happened, we would have run into each other somewhere, got to talking— you never know, right, Cas?”

His thumb strokes back along Castiel’s jawline and beneath his ear. But Castiel has gone still. “What is it?” Dean asks, worried at once that he’s doing too much and not enough.

“You…” Castiel blinks. His eyelashes are long, and Dean can feel a bit of a breeze as they flutter so close to his skin. “You gave me a nickname.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s mouth twitches. “Should I not?” For a bare moment he’s reminded of all the lectures and lessons, all the things he isn’t supposed to do as an angel’s betrothed. He forgets all of them the minute he looks at Castiel. He can’t help it. Cas makes his mind go blank.

“I like it.” Castiel reaches out, extends one finger and traces the outline of Dean’s lips. It’s the most he’s dared to do yet, and Dean stays still, lets him learn how it feels. When he’s done, he pulls back his finger, glances at it, and then locks his eyes with Dean’s. “Say it again.”

Warmth crushes Dean’s ribs, makes his wrists ache and builds up a lump in his throat. He reaches out, pulls Castiel in, and whispers “Cas” against his lips.

Castiel makes a small noise of appreciation and his mouth parts against Dean’s. The wet back of his lip catches against Dean’s, and, unable to stop, Dean flickers out his tongue to taste it. It brings a full moan from Castiel, and Dean knows without asking that Castiel’s body is vibrating with want, that he’s trying not to press himself against Dean, rush things too much. The kiss lingers, as sweet and soft and intimate as it can be without becoming anything more, and when Dean pulls back they stare wordlessly for a full minute. The magnetism is still there between them, trying to pull them toward more, but neither of them is sure it’s the right thing.

Dean’s still trying to find words for what he’s feeling when Castiel takes a step backward and smiles. “Will you drink?”  
  



	7. Part Seven

“I hope it’s to your liking.” Castiel pulls on the cork and the champagne flows free. It’s a feat of strength that Dean has to admit sets his heart punching in his ribs a little faster. This is an angel he’s with. Angelic feats included. Dean’s mind briefly wanders to interesting places with that knowledge, then comes back down to earth.

“Well, a brewski might have been a bit more my speed, but what the hell, it’s a wedding, right?” Dean waits for Castiel to pour the bubbly, then lifts the single glass in a toast to the air. “Here’s to surprises.”

“May they always be pleasant ones,” Castiel murmurs. Dean grins at him. Castiel smiles back, but it’s halfhearted. Dean ignores the sudden dip in his stomach and takes a nice long swig.

The bubbles tickle his hard palate, and at once he’s sure he imagined that anxious look. “Hey,” he says, “so you can’t drink it, but what happens if I drink it and then kiss you?”

  
  
Castiel starts. “I… don’t know,” he admits.  


“Should we find out?” Dean pours himself another mouthful and drinks it. He wants the buzz to come on, wants to let the stress of this very unusual day melt away. The champagne helps, and so does the memory of Castiel’s kiss so close, just a few minutes faded into memory, and he wants it again, wants more.

Wants Castiel close to him again, and he is, looking bright and excited and eager.  He’s pressed himself into the small space between Dean and the table, sneakily, and his smile twitches with both triumph and guilt at having insinuated himself so boldly. Dean’s overcome with amusement. He leans in and kisses him.

Castiel cries out, pushes away, and coughs.

“I’m sorry!” Dean leans back, as though he could poison Castiel with booze breath alone. “Are you OK, Cas? Jeez, I didn’t—”

“I’m fine.” Castiel coughs a few more times. “I’m fine. It was… surprisingly strong.”

Dean licks his own lips, trying to absorb up the rest of the alcohol, wondering how it must feel to be an angel and have that aftertaste, so mild in his own mouth, shock his system that intensely. “Guess I’ll hold off on drinking the rest for now.”

“No, don’t.” Castiel lifts the glass toward him. He flinches minutely when a droplet on the rim catches his finger. “I don’t want you to change, or do anything differently because you’ve married me. And…” He swallows hard. “I think I can stand it. Now that I know…”

Dean’s heartbeat goes from an accelerated throb to a hummingbird’s buzz. Maybe it’s because it’s been so long, maybe it’s the stress and the fact he hasn’t eaten much, but the few gulps of champagne are affecting him more than a half-dozen beers used to. He takes the glass from Castiel, sets it down on the table decisively, and pulls Castiel close with both arms.

“Ready?” he breathes.

Castiel’s rapt, looking at him with blue eyes that trust completely. “Yes.”

And though Castiel does wince, a slight convulsion of muscles, when Dean’s lips come down on his, before a moment is up he’s matching Dean’s tongue stroke for stroke, winding his way into Dean’s arms and letting Dean move him, inch by slow inch, toward the bed. They crash down to it with a dull noise, and a dozen rose petals fly into the air and land on their bodies. Dean snickers into the kiss, and Castiel starts to smile too, but then Dean’s hands are making their slow way down his back and untucking his dress shirt, and the smile fades under the weight of a moan.

“I told you,” he says, breathlessly, when Dean’s got his shirt half-unbuttoned and is pressing ravenous kisses into his collarbone and shoulder. “You don’t have to do anything—”

“I want to.” Murmured into the crook of Castiel’s neck, then repeated — “I want to—” against Castiel’s lips. Dean pulls back in time to wink at him. “Would hate to see all your optimism go to waste.”

Castiel smiles at him, full and brilliant as the rising moon in the window. Dean presses him down into the bed. He doesn’t leave until morning.  
  



	8. Part Eight

Dean wakes up with a sense of foreboding and an ache spreading through his back and radiating down his legs. He’s warm, and he doesn’t know quite where he is. Sleepy confusion lingers for a few long seconds, and then the images and memories start to tumble back into place. Waiting in an empty room. A stranger to whom he’s signed his life away. Fear. Surprise. Amusement. Warmth. And the taste of a soft mouth beneath the tickle of champagne bubbles. Delirious pleasure pulling him beyond the range of good judgment.

What has he done?  
  
He doesn’t regret the marriage. He’d decided to sell his soul long ago, and all he has to do is think of Sam to know that decision was the right one. He’d been prepared — as prepared as a guy can be, that is — to learn to shut up and bow his head and do what he was told, to live in a house that was not his own, lie in a bed that held no love in it, and keep Sam and his folks and their precarious situation in mind whenever he felt the need to rebel.

He wasn’t prepared for what actually happened. And he figures, maybe that’s why he has ended up here. So relieved was he that Castiel was not cruel, that Castiel actually seemed to care, that all of his nervousness had wrung out of him as excitement, and gratitude, and now he’d ended up in Castiel’s bed (after some truly mind-blowing sex) and daring to feel safe and happy, just for a few seconds.

But Dean’s learned something in life. He learned it the moment they set fire to his home when he was four. And he re-learned it when they came after his family in the night, when his dad pushed a gun into his ten-year-old hands and taught him to fight monsters, when Sam had been poisoned with the blood of the demons. That lesson was: Nothing ever goes the way you hope it will go. Happy now? Wait five minutes and you’ll learn why your happiness is in fact the precursor to destruction.

He can’t trust this happiness. Already he’s sinking into dread.

The warmth near him shifts, and Dean realizes his arms are still stretched around Castiel’s body. Oh, God, it’s seeping into him already, the intimacy and lazy wonderfulness of skin-to-skin contact, and he wants to withdraw, tear himself away before it pulls him under again.

Panic is rising in his throat.

_Come on, Dean. Pull it together. You can do this without losing yourself. Just switch off._

But he can’t. And when Castiel’s eyes open, and they’re crystal-blue in the morning sunlight, the painful lift of hope in his heart nearly crushes him from the inside out.

“Good morning, Dean,” Castiel says. His tone is rich and warm with affection.

Dean’s jaw fights him. He can’t say anything for fear he might mean it.

Castiel yawns, looking a bit like a sleepy puppy, and curls into Dean’s body, burrowing his face in Dean’s neck. “I thought I was still dreaming,” he murmurs. “But you’re really here.”

“You dream?” Dean says. Somehow he didn’t think that was one of the habits that angels had picked up in their human guises.

“I’ve dreamed of you every night for weeks,” Castiel says, and his face is so warm against Dean’s skin, his lips grazing Dean’s ear, that the implications of the words don’t make as deep a dent as they ought to. “Every morning I wake up and you’re not here, and I’ve waited and waited for the morning you would be.”

_God,_ Dean wants to reach down, kiss his skin, run his fingertips all over the long pink-white lines of Cas’ body, pull him in and make love to him until they're both seeing stars. It’s _all_ he wants, and that scares the hell out of him.

“Did you do something to me, Cas?” he half-whispers. His voice is morning-foggy.

Castiel pauses. “Hm?”

“Like, some kind of love spell? Did you make me feel this way about you?” Even if he did, Dean can’t fight it, can’t help how badly he wants Cas. But at least the knowledge would be something he could hold onto, some shard of strength. “Does the marriage mean— does it automatically make me—”

His limbs are cold all of a sudden. Castiel has pulled way.

His eyes radiate icy hurt into Dean’s. “Dean,” he says, slowly, and he’s trembling. Has Dean finally evoked his ire? “I said you were perfect just as you were. I would never want to change you. Not your heart, not your mind. I need you— just as you.”

It’s melodramatic and cringe-worthy, but it’s spoken with such hear and with Castiel’s eyes so wide and sunlit that they’re robin’s-egg blue, and Dean sucks in a breath and can’t let it out.

Castiel pauses a moment, wavering, then sits up in bed. The emotion drains from his eyes, and he turns away. “I’ll prepare breakfast,” he says, “if you’ll do me the favor of eating with me.”

Dean watches him rise, walk toward the door, in a haze. What’s happening? Is Castiel angry with him? But his shoulders are drooping, and he seems almost disappointed. Shame and guilt churn in Dean’s gut. He searches for something to say. All that comes out is “Cas.”

Castiel pauses. Waits for more. He doesn’t turn to face Dean.

“You get why I’m nervous, right? I mean, I just met you yesterday, and already—”

“I shouldn’t have rushed you,” Castiel says. “That was my mistake. I’ll go make breakfast.”

He shuts the door behind him. By the time Dean finds the will to get out of bed and follow, Castiel’s already long gone.

Grumbling, Dean heads back into his own room in search of clothes. If he’s going to go in search of Castiel — and he is — at the very least he’s not wandering a huge, strange house buck naked.


	9. Part Nine

Dean finds a big, bulky sweatshirt of his — one with the name of a college he knows he’ll never see, much less attend, emblazoned on the front. It fits snugly over his chest, the sleeves constricting his arms a bit, but at least now he feels a little protected from the elements of this new reality he’s woken up in the middle of. He finds a pair of boxers, too, and plain black slacks, and slides them on before venturing from the artificial home of his room into the vast unknown of Castiel’s house.

The length of the corridor surprises him again as he steps into the middle of it — it really feels like a road to nowhere, and where the walls fall away and he finds himself gazing down at that library again, he thinks he’s truly in an alien atmosphere. Who has the money to collect all these books, to furnish his own house to look like this? His heart beats blood into the back of his mouth, so warm is the flush that comes upon him. He might not mind curling up on one of those sofas with a book, if it’s good enough — something Greek, maybe, he thinks, or something from the old age, before the angels came — and just forget for a while where he came from and where he’s ended up. It used to be he would steal away and do that, every so often. But Sam was the sickly one, the one who could afford to spend all day reading books, because that’s all he had. Dean was hale and strong, and his job was to keep the family safe. There was always work to be done. No time for him to be reading.

The back of his hand aches slightly at a remembered slap. _What are you doing with that book, boy. There’s work to be done. You want your brother to die?_

How many times had he heard that question over the years of his childhood?

 

  
Dean shakes it away. It’s not relevant. And Dad never loved him so much as when he said he’d be happy to be an angel’s husband, if it meant Sammy would get better. The lectures started after that, but for a few beautiful moments, Dad looked at him with compassion and pride in his dark eyes, and that was worth everything.

He inhales, and the air that flows into his nostrils smells of frying things and potatoes and coffee, and Dean’s reminded why he’s here. His stomach has other designs, grumbling loudly, and he makes his way down the hall and back to the foyer staircase.

In stocking feet, he plods his careful way down and follows his nose along another, shorter hallway to a sunlight-filled kitchen. Tiles gleam along the walls and floor, and bright square windows look out onto a backyard Dean hasn’t seen before, one that’s full of lush green things, untamed enough that a flock of birds alights noisily on a tree branch just outside and seem perfectly at home. Castiel, with his back to Dean, looks up at them and nods, as though they’re old friends. Maybe they are.

Castiel says nothing — why should he? He thinks he’s alone — but flips a pancake in a shallow pan. In another, bacon sizzles, and next to the range a carafe of coffee bubbles excitedly. When the birds quiet down, Dean can hear that he’s humming — a soft, unfamiliar tune in a tenor voice. As he watches, Castiel keeps humming as he flips the pancake out of the skillet and onto a plate, then fishes a pair of strips of bacon from the adjoining pan and lines them up on the same plate.

Then, his voice breaks, continues to hum another bar, and falls silent.

Castiel leans on the counter and shakes his head. “Stupid,” he murmurs. “He’s here. At least he’s here. Be happy about that, for now.”

Dean’s heart seizes up, and if there were a fist in his chest squeezing the life out of it, he doesn’t think it could feel any more constricted.

“You can’t make him—” Castiel says, and then he trails off. He reaches toward a mug tree laden with pristine white cups, and Dean wonders briefly how many of them are ever used, because Castiel has to think a moment before he remembers to pull a second one down along with the first. Castiel’s shaking his head again as he pours the coffee first into one cup, then the next. “Patience,” he tells himself. “Patience.”

And Dean suddenly has none.

Castiel’s hands stutter on the carafe as Dean’s arms come around him. He shakily replaces it on the boiler and raises his hands slowly to touch Dean’s arms, testing to see if they’re real. “Dean?” And then, a moment later, when he realizes Dean must have heard him talking to himself: “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Just tell me this is real,” Dean whispers. “Never mind the marriage, or what we’re supposed to be, or any of that. Just…” He buries his face in Castiel’s neck, puls sharply so he can feel the line of Castiel’s body against his. “Just say the thing that’s happening between us, how we feel… say that’s not made up and it’s not some sort of magic, just tell me that’s real, and I swear I won’t care about the rest.” He means it, desperately, like his life and breath is hanging on the answer.

Castiel’s tense in his arms, vibrating, and Dean wants to hold him tighter until he stills. Instead, he loosens his grip, and Castiel turns then to face him, slides coffee-warm hands up against his cheeks and gazes at him.

“Dean,” he says. “Dean, I would never dare to change your heart. And if I could, I’d never do it through deceit.” He takes a shaky breath. “All I ask is for you to find a way that you can live with me. You don’t have to love me, you don’t have to touch me.” His lips press together, resolve and anxiety in the movement. “But I won’t deny that is my wish.”

Dean’s throat seized up at the word “love,” and he’s stuck, unable to make words of any of the questions that are buzzing around the bottom of his throat. He has to swallow them down to save his sanity, because there’s so much implied there his head’s bursting with it.

He speaks, hoarsely, and his eyes dart to Castiel’s and away again. “I’m here, aren’t I?” he says. “I’m gonna find a way, Cas. I swear. I’m just having trouble believing things can go this well. I never thought I’d even like you, much less…”

His cheeks are hot. He can’t say what he’s thinking. Which is a lot less than love, at least for now, but it’s a lot more than like, and it’s a lot more than touch.

“Good things do happen, Dean.”

The words fall on him like a sheet of rain. Dean actually winces with the weight of them.

Castiel draws away, but this time he’s not retreating. “It may make more sense on a full stomach,” he says with a small smile. “Will you join me for breakfast?”

Dean smiles unreservedly. “You bet.”


	10. Part Ten

Bacon. Pancakes. A moment later, when the kitchen timer buzzes, Castiel brings a trayful of roasted potatoes. And coffee, endless flowing coffee, with cream and sugar, and Dean can’t remember the last timehe ate this well. That is, if he eats it. He’s having a bit of a hard time doing more than staring at it all.

“Angels cook,” he murmurs to himself.

“I cook,” Castiel corrects him, stirring his own coffee. “I find it relaxing. And I wanted to be able to treat you right. I know you haven’t always…”

He trails off. Dean takes a forkful of pancake and watches him carefully. The idea has been percolating in his mind for a while now, and he’s had too many clues. A delightful swallow, a swig of coffee, and he frowns determinedly at Castiel and clears his throat.

“First time I saw you was when you poked your head in that room,” he says. “Asking where the bathroom was, like you were just some random stranger.”

“Yes.” Castiel laughs shakily, but he’s tense. Dean’s gaze is too piercing for him to be able to relax.

Dean drops the other shoe. “But it wasn’t the first time you’d seen me,” he says. “Was it?”

  
Silence. Castiel doesn’t move or speak, but a flush builds up in his cheeks and then drains away, leaving him more pallid than he’s ever been. Red, then white, with his eyes the constant, shocked blue as his mind stops, then speeds up again. Dean can practically hear the screeching of the gears.

“It’s no big deal,” Dean says, half-believing it. “I mean, of course you guys should get to see what you’re buying.”

“It’s not like that,” Castiel snaps. His hand closes around the edge of the table, rattling the dishes, so hard is his grip. “Dean, it isn’t like that.”

Dean thinks carefully. He doesn’t want to screw this up, but it’s hard not to accuse. “Course it isn’t,” he says finally. “I get that you care, Cas. I’m damn glad of it. But maybe you should tell me what it is like? Just so I don’t get the wrong idea?”

Castiel takes a long draught of coffee. “You’re right,” he says. A potato later, he repeats it. “You’re right.”

Dean lets him have his time. Looks like he needs it, and seeing Castiel nervous makes him anxious about what he’s about to hear.

A few more minutes, and Castiel sits back in his chair. “There are some things,” he says slowly, “that I cannot tell you. You must understand that. It’s not that I don’t wish to tell you. I do. But I cannot.”

“I have no idea what that means,” Dean says, “but all right. Yeah.  Better I know something than nothing.”

Castiel gazes at him, weighs the truth of his words. Seemingly satisfied, he nods. “You are right. It was not the first time I’d seen you. Far from it. I’ve been watching you for a very long time, Dean. Watching you and waiting for you.”

“Since I agreed to get married off?” Dean asks quietly. “Or longer than that?”

“Much longer.” Castiel’s eyes are downcast. “I know where you come from, Dean. I know that you nearly lost your mother, that your father angered demons and that you’ve had to defend your family from all kinds of attacks. I know that your brother is infected with demon blood, and I know what it does to him. I know that you’ve given up all thoughts of a normal life in favor of taking care of him, that you and your father have worked your whole life to keep him and your mother safe and fed.” His eyes catch Dean’s. “I know this is why you agreed to marry me, this and nothing more.”

Dean nods. It feels like a shame, now that he knows Castiel a little better, that he still can’t say he’s here for any other reason than the angelic protection and the financial support that the marriage offers his family. But he’s not nearly as freaked out as he should be, to know that Castiel has been watching him nearly his whole life. Because it could have been any angel he ended up marrying, and he’s damn glad it was Cas. Someone who knows him, someone who seems to care.

“But please, know this,” Castiel goes on. “Though you may have come here for their sake, I have asked for your hand for my own. I’m selfish, Dean. I did not enter into this marriage out of some altruistic desire to save a downtrodden family.”

He reaches forward and slips his hand over Dean’s. “I married you because from the first time I saw you at your brother’s bedside, I loved you.”

Dean trembles. The words are vibrating through him. His hand is hot beneath Castiel’s.

“You have done everything in life for the sake of your family,” Castiel says. “You have never once thought of yourself. I want you to know, Dean, that from now on, with very few exceptions, you can do whatever you wish. This house, and I, am yours. From now on, your life is your own. That is my gift to you.”

A prickle of suspicion is rising up Dean’s spine. “What are the exceptions?”

“You will know them soon enough. For now, can I suggest that you spend the day discovering your new home? There is a pool in the yard.”

Dean can’t quite process the leap. From a confession of love to something dark and ominous, and then Castiel has turned cruise director and invited him to a pool party? It’s a few too many hairpin turns, and he has the feeling Castiel’s had very little experience holding a human’s attention.

“Cas,” he says.

“Yes?”

“You said you loved me.”

Blue eyes shine bright. “I do.”

“You get that it takes a long time to fall in love, right? That I’m not gonna turn around by the end of the day, or the week, or even the month, and say I love you too.”

“Of course.” A hint of sadness there, but the gaze doesn’t waver.

“And even knowing that, you still want me to dick around your house doing whatever the hell I want.”

“It would bring me joy.”

Dean sighs. There’s still much more on his mind, but maybe it can wait. Maybe there’s some happiness to be had here, and Castiel’s right — with his family taken care of, what’s wrong with him just taking it?

“Then,” he says, with some difficulty, “let me finish breakfast. And let me wash up for you. And I’ll meet you out by the pool.” He grins. “Sound good?”

The way Castiel’s face lights up makes him forget one more time — if only for a moment — that he’s here because he has to be, not because he wants to be.

Then again, what’s wrong with both?


	11. Part Eleven

The water slips past his hands, bubbles pop as they swirl toward the drain, and Dean watches it all happen, feeling as though he’s watching something important. An inevitable flow toward the end, and it only matters how much crud and oil is there to slow it down, to make it labored and painful and muddy the clarity of the water. But that’s the whole point, to wash it all away, and that seems terribly relevant for some reason. He’s just not smart enough to figure it out.

He gives the dirty pans another spurt of oil and scrubs hard, watching bacon grease break up and dissipate, his gaze lifting as a cluster of tiny bubbles rise effortlessly into the air. That he gets. He can’t decide if he’s supposed to be the water or the grease or the pan, but he knows that all things considered, he’d much rather be those careless bubbles, who dance and pop and don’t much care about a thing.

He grins. That’s it, isn’t it? He’s here in a freaking huge mansion with a dude who adores him and who is eminently boneable, whose hands felt just right wrapped around him, and whose eyes sparkle with selfless appreciation. And the guy can cook. And for once in his life he doesn’t have to worry about Mom and Dad, or Sam. They’re protected now, taken care of, and he can just live for himself.

And he’s got a pool date. What the hell is he worried about? The rest will come out, the shadows will fall sooner or later, but until they do…

  
He heads out to the pool as the sun is rising higher, and though a brief breeze prickles up the hair on his arms, the heat is enough to make it pleasant. Castiel is standing at the edge of the pool in swim trunks, his body lit from the side by the sun. Golden light draws lines against his ribcage, the muscles of his stomach and his legs. Dean actually physically catches his breath.

As he watches, Castiel turns, launches himself into the air and arcs like a leaping fish before slipping headfirst into the water in a perfect dive. Dean’s palms sweat a little. He believes Cas is an angel a hundred and ten percent right now; the arc of his dive seems to hang in the air after he’s gone, shimmering with the lack of space, and Dean knows that a million tries and he’d never be able to retrace it. The pool is unbroken now, and Castiel’s figure is moving forward beneath it, pink-gray beneath blue. Dean watches as he goes on, swimming further, until his silhouette can no longer be seen beneath the shade that a cluster of trees throws on the far end of the pool.

It’s such a desirable body, Dean thinks, a curl of heat turning over slow in his belly. Whatever he might have thought of Cas, the physical attraction had been there from the start and undeniable. Cas is by turns amusingly cute, devastatingly sexy, and picture-perfectly handsome, so much so that Dean would be jealous if he had any sense. Anyone who looks like that needs to not exist. Or be in Dean’s bed. Lucky him.

Something’s wrong, he realizes after a minute. Castiel’s silhouette is not emerging from the shadow. He should be moving, should be returning, swimming the lap back up toward the head of the pool. Dean panics. What kind of an idiot can dive like that but can’t swim?

He strips fast and throws himself forward into the pool.

The water hits him in a fast, cold shock; he shivers all over and opens his eyes against the chlorine sting. Castiel’s figure is visible now, a lump at the end of the pool, and Dean motors toward him, legs powering spray behind him and lungs bursting against the rapid pump of his heart. The stupid idiot angel, what the hell was he thinking? Dean’s hands close over his skin, yank his body upward, and as they break the surface he sees Castiel’s blank blue eyes and damn it he can’t be, angels don’t die, they can’t, please, they can’t.

He drags Castiel toward the side of the pool. Castiel’s body resists.

“What the hell?” Dean tugs harder.

“Please don’t pull me like that,” Castiel says.

Dean breaks away and gapes at him. “You’re okay?”

“Why would I not be?” Castiel blinks water from his eyes and treads water, his hands drawing even, patient circles.

The simplicity of his movements drives Dean further into a rage. “What do you mean why not? You were under the damn water not moving and not coming up for air!”

Castiel’s mouth drops open. “Oh! I’m sorry. I forgot to breathe.”

Dean sputters. “You did what?”

Swimming briefly over to the side of the pool, Castiel leans on the raised edge of it, his upper arms hooking him on the concrete. His legs kick a lazy stream of bubbles out from between his feet. “Being underwater is very much like my celestial existence was, before I took human form,” he says. “Very often I’m so immersed in the experience that I forget to keep my human body running.”

“So what, you die for a little bit?” Dean swims next to him. Curiosity has overtaken his anger.

Castiel half-smiles. “I suppose. The human form exists to allow me to interact with you. It’s not essential that I keep it alive permanently.”

“But you said you had human needs,” Dean says. “And desires.”

“I do. When the body is present to demand them.”

Dean’s dumbfounded. “Doesn’t it hurt to die, though?”

“Briefly.”

“And is it better? To be just your… celestial whatever?”

Castiel gazes at him. “In a way, it’s freeing. But there are advantages to being in a living human body as well.” His eyes sweep over Dean, and with a rush of heat Dean realizes that was the answer he was hoping for.

He leans in close, slides one hand up Castiel’s bare chest. “I like you better alive than dead,” he says, with a half-smile. “For what it’s worth.”

Castiel’s eyes go dark. “The feeling is mutual,” he says.

He lowers himself down into the water, stopping every other inch to see whether Dean will pull away. Dean doesn’t. They’re totally on the same page right now.

A thigh presses against his. Another. Castiel’s hands interlace at the nape of his neck.

And Castiel pushes back in alarm. “You’re naked!”

He’s so flustered, his eyes so wide, that Dean has to laugh. “You think I just happened to wake up with a bathing suit on?”

“I thought you’d go back to your room and change.” Castiel’s cheeks are red. “You’re not supposed to—”

“Who says?” Dean pulls him close again, palms outspread on his shoulder blades. Castiel’s face is impossibly, achingly kissable right now, and Dean can’t help but latch his mouth against one flushed cheek for a brief taste. “Who made that rule, the angel of swimming pools?”

“I—” Castiel moans, averts his eyes, then pushes his cheek against Dean. Wet silk skin against Dean’s. So good. “It’s not fair,” he complains in a weak voice.

“Then let’s make it fair.”

In a rush, Dean’s pushed his fingers under the waistband of Castiel’s swim trunks and is yanking them down. He ducks underwater to ease them off and slides back up, body flush against Castiel’s, deliberately and sensually. When he surfaces, he sees Castiel’s face alight with wonder and shock and excitement.

“You’re making me forget to breathe again,” Castiel murmurs.

“Whoops,” Dean says, and lowers his mouth to Castiel’s in a wet, sunlit, heated kiss.


	12. Part Twelve

Somewhere in Dean’s peripheral vision, the water is rippling, drawing wave patterns on his retinas as sunlight and shadow land and reflect on the water. Somewhere, and then it’s gone, his eyes closed, and the pool is nothing more than a vague chill on his skin. Everything that is alive, that is liquid and real, is Castiel’s mouth on his, the deliberate swipe of a soft tongue against his lips, wet, searching.

Hot fingers skim along his upper arm, slide up and down restlessly, claw and even out and grab and shift by turns. Castiel’s trying out every grip, every angle. Every way they can possibly hold each other. Dean’s good with each of them. Castiel clutching him like he might fall and drown, OK. Castiel’s hands hot and demanding on the small of his back, perfect. Castiel breathing soft into his mouth while fingers frame his face, wonderful. Every permutation of him and Castiel kissing, touching, as mutable and as natural as water.

  


And all that just with Castiel’s hands and his arms. His kiss ever-changing too, now sucking, now tasting carefully, now grazing his teeth along Dean’s lip with almost savage intention. Dean’s hard, and so is Cas, their cocks bobbing in the water against their stomachs, but they’re still working on hands and lips, still nurturing the lazy heat between the top half of their bodies even as the more desperate kind builds up beneath the surface. The pool will hold them in check until they’re good and ready to move on.

There’s a soft pursing popping sound and a good five seconds later Dean realizes their mouths have finally parted. He opens his eyes again, focusing in on Castiel’s mouth (impossibly pink, still straining forward as though he could catch another kiss in midair) and dragging his gaze upward. The rippling pattern of the pool is reflected in Castiel’s eyes now. Dean’s breath catches in his throat at the sight of it.

Castiel swallows, clears his throat, and searches for words. He looks confused, like a baby bird kicked out of the nest and lost on unfamiliar terrain, and Dean wants to scoop him up and guide him home. Hold him close. His heart thuds hard against his chest to see that lost expression.

“You said,” Castiel starts finally, “what happened last night might not happen again. I still— I still respect that. You don’t have to do this. Any of this.” His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes won’t meet Dean’s. Dean knows the feeling. Should their eyes catch, they might be set on fire and lose their minds. Dean gets that Cas wants to hold on to his sanity. Dean’s clutching what’s left of his.

But he has a bit more experience than Cas does at things like this. He’s well versed in the madness, the conscious ceding of control. Not that any of his passing lusts have ever compared to this mad rush that seems to have taken over every cell in his body, but at least he has a frame of reference.

“I know,” he murmurs, his voice rasping uncomfortably in his throat. His lips are tingling too hard to be doing something as mundane as talking.

He slips his fingers through Castiel’s hair, rests his palm against Castiel’s temple. “But you told me this was real, right? You were telling the truth then.”

Castiel nods. His face is sober, but there’s a desperation behind his eyes.

Dean cracks a smile. “Then stop thinking so much.”

He kisses Castiel again and this time Castiel cries out against his lips, a rough sound. Buoyed by the water, Castiel’s body drifts onto him, and Dean drifts down, knees bending and feet loosing from the floor of the pool. His weight and the buoyancy of the water hold Castiel up, and their legs drift and move together as they float, kissing, straining against each other in the liquid freedom of the water. It’s like flying, Dean guesses, like floating in midair. He wonders if angels fly. Then he remembers what Cas had said, about being underwater, about how it’s like being in his natural form. And Dean is simultaneously scared and elated. He crushes Castiel’s body close, wanting him to stay there, to stay human, but at the same time he doesn’t care if he drowns so long as this weightlessness, this primal connection never fades away.

His mouth leaves Cas’, licks down a chlorine-tinged trail of wet skin to his shoulder and settles there. Under the heat of it, Castiel shudders and his cock twitches against Dean’s stomach. He lets forth a soft _uhh_ of a moan, eyes shutting tight, burying his own head in Dean’s shoulder and clasping him tighter with tense hands at his hip, shoulder.

That settles it. “Let’s go inside, Cas.”

Another whimper answers him.

He helps Cas out of the pool, and naked, grinning guiltily at each other for the temerity to walk around outdoors as God created them, they make their shivering way toward the glass doors that open on the den. Castiel picks up a pair of towels from the nearby chair, but he only wraps the one around both of them — they’re close enough, hot enough, that the layers of cloth between their bodies would be an intolerable burden. The other towel gets dropped halfway to the doors.

They stop to drip water onto the hardwood floors, uncaring, kissing and moving against each other until their knees wobble and they have to make another dozen steps toward the stairway (leaning against the railing, Castiel stepping ahead of Dean to rain kisses down onto his upturned face) or down the hall (artwork, probably priceless, rattling on the walls as Dean pushes Castiel against a linen-closet door and molds their bodies together with teasing touches against the top of his thigh, the crux of his leg). When they break into Castiel’s bedroom it’s with shouts of triumph and relief, and they rush out from beneath the towel’s confines and throw themselves naked and laughing onto the bed.

Castiel’s impossibly warm and kissable and touchable beneath him, and Dean doesn’t spare a single lick, a curl of fingers or brush of lip. There’s too much he needs, too much to taste and enjoy, burrowing and worming and bucking against Cas, and he can’t stop. And with each movement, an affirming cry or  a gasp, or Castiel’s hand tightening on the back of his neck, and after a while Castiel’s legs are around his waist and Dean’s cock is riding against his ass and he’s going to explode if he doesn’t say it out loud.

“Cas,” he murmurs, the whisper hissing like steam against Castiel’s skin. “Gonna fuck you, OK?”

The moan of his name in response isn’t unexpected. But the sudden push against his chest is, and abruptly Dean’s sitting up in bed, staring at a serious-faced Castiel who has pushed him to arm’s length.

“Cas?”

“I can’t,” Castiel says. Dean’s dick and heart throb in painful unison.

“Oh,” he says, scrambling backward on the bed. He can’t feel his face. Everything’s drained away, strength and passion and life, in those two syllables. “Oh. I— Uh. Sorry.”

The _sorry_ rings false in his ear, and Dean’s two seconds away from getting mad. Why the hell should he be sorry? Castiel’s the one who’s been begging for it, been guilting him through each modest “oh, I understand, you don’t have to,” each one driving Dean a little crazier with lust. And now, after all they’ve done  (and all they did last night, all the rolling around and the touching and Castiel coming, with an amazed shout, into the space between their stomachs), he can’t even seal the deal? What the hell kind of sham marriage is this, or is it just torture?

Castiel crawls toward him, leans his head on his shoulder. “I want you to,” he says, “but there are rules, Dean. Please understand. I have to be the one to—”

He stops. Lets the words sink in. It takes a minute. Dean’s a dummy.

Oh.

Oh, _God._ He’s really a dummy.

Dean laughs. “Wait, say that again?”

Castiel’s mouth is wet and his skin is flushed and his hair is rumpled with the aftermath of Dean’s searching, curious fingers raking through it time after time. And as he speaks, slowly, in careful and educated words, Dean can only think how badly he wants to look like that too. Turnabout is fair play.

“It’s required that I am the dominant partner in our relations,” Castiel explains

Well. Dean can think of one way to get that fucking debauched-looking.

“I can live with that,” he says, and pulls Castiel down over him.


	13. Part Twelve-and-a-half

Dean’s underwater. Underwater and drowning, and he can’t breathe and he doesn’t want to, his body arching up as though trying its best to float on the waves. But Castiel’s weighing him down — the weight of his chest brushing Dean’s, the weight of his arms cuffing against the stretched part of Dean’s thighs, and the weight inside him most of all. Dean filled to the core with him, and no wonder he’s drowning, there’s no room in him left for air.

He looked at Castiel, a moment before this happened, and said yeah, he could live with Castiel — how had he put it? — being the dominant partner. In other words, Cas fucking him. Topping him. Whatever the right word is. He was so wrong. He won’t survive this. It’s too intense. He’ll expire from  a heart attack first. His heart is beating in his throat and it’s like having a bird stuck inside him, trying to fly its way out.

 

  
“God,” he hears himself saying, and when he does Castiel flinches, but only minorly. It’s the same kind of barely-there wince as when Cas and Dean  kissed last night, when Dean had the tang of alcohol on his lips. Speaking of God in passion must be a sin, and it must hurt Castiel just a bit to be close to it. So Dean says “Cas” instead, and it turns into a chant — “Cas, oh, Cas—” and the name tumbles off his lips as easily as some invisible God’s name. Easier, because Cas is right here and radiating light and heat into him, and even when Dean was saying God, it was really Cas he was praising.

Cas winces when he swears, too, but he also thrusts deeper and bites on Dean’s lip, so Dean doesn’t even try to stop swearing.

They’re caked together, layers of pool water and sweat making them slick all over, and when Dean does manage to suck in a gasp of air it’s humid, warm. The heat’s choking him, and he throws his arms around Cas, pulls his head down so Dean can crane up into the space above his shoulder and steal another breath. Has he ever been so lost in another person’s body? Even the dizzy, crazy encounters of adolescence, when he could come just from thinking about a pair of thighs or a lazy smile, never felt quite like this.

Maybe because Castiel’s eyes are open, like he can’t stand to miss a moment. Because Castiel’s brows are furrowed in concentration, and his muscles are taut with control. But when his lips aren’t pursed and pressed against Dean’s skin, they’re just barely turned up.

Maybe because knowing all this means Dean’s eyes are wide open, too.

“Cas,” he whispers for the thousandth time, as though if he doesn’t keep saying it, Cas will fade like a dream. “You feel incredible.”

“I do,” Castiel agrees readily. He’s misinterpreted what Dean said, or maybe he heard the words as a question. Dean doesn’t know. But the swipe of Cas’ lips against Dean’s is more communication than words could ever be. They’re rocking in harmony, their heartbeats are in synch — in fast, brutal synch but still synch — and whatever they have to say, whatever emotion is too much for Dean to keep inside, the basis is here and it’s completely understood.

Castiel’s body. Castiel’s heart, which has been Dean’s since before Dean knew he existed. It weighs on him. It raises him up. Like water, and thus Dean drowns, breathless, dragged under and tossed up again. Everything’s changing, Dean’s world is changing and he can’t fight it, can only submit. His head tips back, his hands tighten, and he moves desperately under Castiel, trying to accelerate the friction. Crisis has been swimming under his skin for too long and he needs the end to come.

It comes, he comes, and instead of drowning for an instant he is the ocean, full of tides that crash and fight and overwhelm him. Castiel plows into him serious and steady, even as Dean convulses and shouts all around him, and he’s so even that Dean grabs his ass and forces him forward and deep. “C’mon, Cas,” he manages, even in his breathlessness. “Come for me, come in me, Cas, fuck—!”

And Cas winces, like he has every time Dean says that word, and seizes up and shudders and gives a loud sob as he pours into Dean’s body.

His head goes down into the muscle of Dean’s chest, and he clings hard as he rides through his orgasm, making small broken sounds. And then he’s still and silent. Dean’s tingling, and his body feels heavy and spent beneath Castiel’s weight. But his mind is awakening from the trance of lust it’s been locked in, and he starts to worry.

He smooths a hand over Castiel’s back. “You OK?” he asks, and a moment later, “Did I hurt you?”

Castiel finds the strength to shake his head, but he doesn’t raise it yet. He just holds on. Dean lets him, wary and worried. “Cas?” he prompts again after a long minute that might have stretched on to two, or five. Or it might have been ten seconds.

“Dean.” Castiel struggles and lifts his head. His face is red with exertion, and there are streaks on his cheeks that might be from tears. But he reaches over to stroke Dean’s face instead, as though Dean’s the one who needs tenderness right now. “Thank you.”

Dean half-laughs. “Thank you, too,” he lobs back casually. “That was pretty good.” What a lie. It was mind-blowingly fantastic. But Dean’s feeling confident and comfortable enough to tease.

Castiel doesn’t seem to get the humor. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” he says, and negotiates himself off Dean and onto the pillows beside him. Lying there, naked and languid, he’s stupidly beautiful, and Dean’s heart twinges in his chest. Its speed has calmed down, but it’s still beating hard. Same bird, broken wings.

But Dean doesn’t feel broken. He should, perhaps. He’s fallen for Cas. That should be some kind of defeat to his all-too-real human pride.

It doesn’t. And somewhere in the background he can feel a darkness creeping up on him that will make him rue this day, this moment of uncomplicated happiness.

Maybe it will come tomorrow. Maybe not for years. Until then, Dean will shut his eyes to it.


	14. Part Thirteen

When he was six months old, Sam Winchester was attacked by demons.

Dean doesn’t remember much. He was four at the time, and the whole thing happened at once, a confused jumble of images. Hiding in bed, footsteps outside his door… then Dad pulling him out, handing Sam to him, telling him to run and hide and not look back. After that Dad had run into the nursery, where Mom was, and Dean could hear her grunting, and the thumps of a fight, and when Dad and Mom came out ten minutes later and joined him behind the pile of firewood, Dean thought he’d done something really, really heroic.

“Here’s Sam,” he said, handing the bundle of baby back to his mother. “See, he’s OK.”

Mom had taken Sam into her arms and held him tight and wept over him, but then she and Dad had begun to talk in low voices and Dean had felt suddenly, horribly alone. But Mom was covered with bruises, and blood was smeared on her forehead, and she wasn’t crying. So Dean didn’t cry either. He grabbed the back of Dad’s shirt with two fists and clung on for dear life until the creatures were long gone.

Even without their approval, Dean thought he had saved Sam. He was wrong.

 

  
The demons had been in control for as long as Dean could remember. There was a time, before he was born, when they’d been hailed as the greatest thing to happen to humanity, though he couldn’t imagine it. Sure, they didn’t take souls in return for prosperity and power anymore… they just took a cut of it themselves, and like the proverbial frog in heating water, humanity just sat there happily while that cut got bigger and bigger.

Dean wasn’t sure of the specifics, he just knew that at some point the demons helping people out turned to the demons running things, and then the demons taking control of everything. It was hard to scrape out a living in times like that, when anyone with any power looked at you like you were a cancer.  Still, the Winchesters managed, holding firm to their little homestead when many of their friends and neighbors had been ruined and forced into the streets.

Sam was weak, and he was so often sick. He stayed holed up in his room on the second floor, and read his books, and talked with Dean for hours on end sometimes when they were both supposed to be in bed.

“How tall are the buildings in New York?” Sam would ask. Or, “Have you ever seen an elephant in real life?” Or, “Is it true that the demons drink human blood?”

Dean never answered a question with “I don’t know.” Sometimes an “I’ll find out for you,” but never just plain “I don’t know.” After all, Sammy looked up to him, and it was Dean’s job to bring him all the information of the outside world. He was never happier than when Sam would look up at him with big, wide eyes, impressed and longing to see the world for himself that he rarely got a breath of.

On the days Sam was feeling well enough, he’d go outside and lie in the grass just beyond the house, breathing in the clear air and staring at the sun as though he couldn’t get his fill of it. Sometimes it’d make him dizzy, and he’d laugh ruefully as he leaned on his big brother and together they staggered back into the house.

They didn’t go on big adventures, but as long as they had each other, their lives were as rich as lives could be that weren’t blessed with demonic largesse.

Not so for their parents. As time went on, the demons were starting to get really violent. They would tear up towns and streets, invade homes, as though trying to mark their territory with a trail of destruction. There was, he heard Mom say to Dad once, a kind of desperation to it, as though if they didn’t move as fast as they could something might catch up to them and destroy them first.

All that meant to Dean was that his parents were arguing more often these days. Sometimes huge screaming fights, sometimes low-toned discussions. When he was ten, he crept to the top of the stairs and listened in.  
  
“He needs to know what’s out there. He needs to prepare himself!” Dad said.

“He’s my little boy. You protect him. Him and Sam both, they’re your responsibility.” Dean could hear the tears in his mother’s voice.  
  
He shot a look over to the adjoining bedroom, where Sam slept, his breathing raspy. It wasn’t fair. First Sam gets attacked and barely gets away, and then he can’t even go outside and play with the rest of the kids? It made Dean angry at the world. Someone ought to be protecting Sam, taking care of him. But all Dad wanted to do was argue with Mom?  
  
Fine. Dean would be the one to protect Sam. He marched downstairs, stood in the kitchen doorway with his hands on his hips, and only jumped a little bit when he realized Dad was carrying two guns. One for himself, Dean knew in another instant, and one for Dean.

The demons didn’t let people have guns. Dean’s eyes rolled up toward his father in wonder. How had he gotten one?

“Dean, go back to your room,” his mother hushed, but Dean stood firm.

“I want to help protect you,” he said. “And Sam.”

He held his hand out for the gun.

“John!” his mother said, but Dad handed it to him anyway.

“You’ve got a job to do now, son,” Dad said to him. “Do it right. Don’t screw up.”

“Yes, sir.”

From then on, Dean became his dad’s deputy. When the demons came close, it was time to stand firm, rifle in hand. Dad used bullets made of salt, and a few blasts of it seemed to scare the demons away from breaking in. Most of the time. There were times they got pretty scuffed up, but they always put some hurt on the demons as well. And more importantly, Sam was never hurt again.

Never hurt, but there was nothing Dean could do to _help_ him. Not until the angels arrived.  



	15. Part Fourteen

The angels marched into Washington, D.C., on one sunny afternoon and explained to cameras and onlookers that they would be taking the earth back from the demonic menace. That they would ask for no power and no money, that they were messengers of God and that they would restore freedom to the human race. They seemed to glow gold on the screen.

It was hard not to root for them, especially after years of living in poverty and fear and hiding. Dean’s parents were skeptical, but as the angels took back the East Coast cities, freed Philadelphia and Indianapolis and New Orleans from the clutches of the demons, their doubt faded. Life was still a shambles, but beneath the grip of the angels’ might, it was slowly returning to normality.

The angels rebuilt what the demons had destroyed. They cured the sick and lifted up the downtrodden. And with each city regained, a few dozen stayed, made homes there and lived among the people. They did not need to eat, so they did not work, but they did not oppress or bother the people, and no one could find a good reason to condemn them.

It was shortly thereafter that the stories began to arise of the angels taking husbands. At first it was an oddity, but then rumors started to fly about the lavish lifestyles they lived and how whole families were raised up on the social and economic ladder through a simple contract. It was a free ride in a time where you were lucky to move at all, and families started actively trying to farm out their children as angel spouses. Advertisements offered angelic etiquette courses _\- train your young man to win the heart of an angel,_ they cooed - and a whole new genre of books and magazines sprang up around those who were anxious to hitch their wagons to that shooting star.

 

  
When the angels arrived in Kansas, thousands of them fanned out through the state. A dozen or so came to Lawrence, and they took their time cleaning the streets, restoring ruined fields to verdancy and giving food to the hungry. When they came to the house, they asked to see Sam, and although Mary’s eyes were full of suspicion, she allowed them to inspect her son.

Sam had grown weaker as the years had passed. Now at age seventeen, he was pale and thin as a bone. Some days he still felt well enough to step outside, but when he didn’t, he couldn’t get out of bed. He had wanted to come outside to greet the angels when they came to Lawrence, but one step and faintness had overcome him, and John and Dean (who was, at twenty-one, better-built but still a head shorter than his brother) had to cart him back inside. There he lay until the angels arrived and insisted on examining him.

John and Mary watched from the doorway, and Dean from the hallway windowsill behind, where nobody paid him any mind. They looked at him for a long time, and shook their heads. “It’s very sad,” said one to the other.  
   
“Too sad,” the other replied.

“What?” Mary asked. “What’s wrong with my boy?”

They cast mournful eyes at each other, then at her. “Your son has been infected,” they intoned.

“Infected? With what?”

The angels’ faces were grave. “Has your son come into contact with demons?”

“No!” Dean’s mother and father, in unison, each sounding uniquely shocked. “We’ve protected him,” and “he’s been safe here at home,” and a million other protestations, jumbling all over each other, as though they were still paying for the sin of that original attack.

“It needn’t have been recent.” The words fell heavy as rain. “It could have been years ago.”

Dean leaped from the windowsill. The world telescoped down to his own hands, and he stared at them. But he’d saved Sam! He hadn’t failed his father! His whole life had been built around that assumption, and in an instant it was crumbled. “What— what did they do to him?” he heard himself say. His brain was buzzing as though it was a bell somebody had struck with a hammer.

And then… maybe it was just because he’d spoken up, but he could have sworn the angel’s gaze was sharp and accusing as it landed on him. “Your brother is infected with demon blood,” he said. “It doesn’t take much  A few drops. It’s enough for them to establish a presence in him, and that presence grows. Allows them to track him, to hunt him down. Eventually… to control him.”

Mary clutched the doorway. John stood firm and silent, but Dean could feel the anger, frustration and disappointment rolling off him in waves. “What do you mean, control him?”

“I mean, the young man you know as Sam will slowly drain away,” the angel said. “Leaving in its place a shell without a soul, an empty vessel.”

Dean’s voice was hoarse. “A vessel for what?”

The angel walked through the doorway, past Mary and John, and stared down Dean. “How do you think the demons walk this earth?” he said. “They do not have their own bodies.”

Dean drew in a sharp breath. Now  he had an image of Sam, his eyes black as pitch, reaching out for him in his unguarded moments, fingers closing around his throat. Terror and sadness assaulted him in turn. All this time they’d kept the demons away, and there was a demon growing inside Sam the whole time, or waiting to take its place inside him, crushing his Sam to dust.

“There has to be something we can do.” John’s voice was low. “There has to be some cure.”

“There is no cure,” the angels said. “There is only containment. There will come a day when you need to keep him within a devil’s trap, in chains. And depending on the strength of the demon who chooses to take him, that may not be enough to hold him.”

Mary, who’d remained tearless for so long, choked back a sob. “So it’s fatal?” she said. “Eventually we’ll lose Sam, and there’s nothing we can do about it?”

The angels looked at each other again. “There may be something,” one said.

* * *

  
  
Their first reaction was to resist. Mary wrapped her arms around her son and declared it was beyond cruel to force her to exchange one son for another. The angels only shrugged their shoulders, said they were not going to force anything. Mary glared at them until they left.  
  
“You should think about it, Mary,” John said.  
  
“There’s nothing to think about. I’m not giving up a son of mine.”  
  
“Do I get a say in this?” Dean offered. He was shot down by a unison parental _No!_  
  
Regardless, Dean had made up his mind. He stopped drinking almost immediately, tried to pull the swears out of his conversation. He had failed Sam, and if this was the way to make up for his loss, so be it. When he refused a beer at the dinner table one to many times, John gazed at him and said, “I take it we’ll be unable to stop you, son.”  
  
Mary took in a breath. Dean did his level best to keep from trembling.  
  
And for the first in a very long time, John smiled. His eyes filled with compassion. “I’m proud of you,” he said.

* * *

  
  
They bought books, then — _101 Things to Know About Angels_ and _Snag a Heavenly Husband Today_ — and tried to study him up as best they could. It was like being put in a neverending finishing school. No matter what time of day or what he was doing, Dean couldn’t escape a reminder: “Don’t slouch,” “Don’t roll your eyes,” “You keep starting arguments like that and you’ll never be a good husband.” It was all starting to seem something like a rags-to-riches nightmare.  
  
In the middle of it all was Sam, who had inexplicably begun to put on muscle. He was still weak, but his body was bulking up, as though some invisible steroid was being pumped into his system. And he was starting to have horrible, violent dreams, dreams he wouldn’t talk about, but sometimes when Dean read him the newspaper in the morning he knew the details of a story that Dean himself hadn’t read through. Usually a violent story.  
  
“I don’t like what’s happening to me,” he said. “I wish I didn’t see these things.”  
  
“I know,” Dean reassured him. “That’s why I’m doing this, Sammy. The angels will fix you, you’ll see.”  
  
“You shouldn’t change who you are, Dean,” Sam would say. “Screw the angels. Let them deal with who you really are. You really want to live a lie every day?”  
  
“I’d rather you have a life than I get a chance to drink beer,” Dean said.  
  
“It’s not just drinking beer. You kow-towing, being this selfless — it’s not who you are.”  
  
“You calling me selfish?”  
  
“I’m calling you the kind of guy who doesn’t let people kick you around. You really going to stand for being some angel’s boy toy? It’s forever, Dean. You can’t ditch them the minute I get better. If I get better.”  
  
Dean leaned forward. “You listen to me, Sammy. You are gonna get better. I’m gonna take care of everything, you’ll see.”  
  
Sam looked doubtful, and it was hard to look at him and not feel the same doubt. But the next night his nightmare was so intense that he nearly threw himself off the bed, and Dean had to fetch rope from the garage to tie him down, and with that, any doubt was erased.  
  
The next day, Mary drove him down to City Hall, where the attending angel approved Dean and they signed the paperwork. By the next week, Dean found himself in a suit, sitting in a posh room in a hotel, waiting for the rest of his life to begin.  
  
Until a guy in a trenchcoat came in, looking harried, and asked where the restroom was.


	16. Part Fifteen

Dean and Castiel are kissing. That’s true more often than not recently. Their lives are full of kisses. Soft, languid ones that start the day. Quick pecks over coffee or lunch. Heated, sloppy, insistent ones on their way upstairs to bed. And right now, something slow and gentle and exploring, Dean’s hands pressed against Castiel’s back, Castiel crawling over his reclining form on a couch in the library. Next to them, on the floor, a forgotten book lies open.

Dean smiles as he licks at Castiel’s lips. “Damn,” he murmurs. “How the hell do you still do this to me?”

“Still?” Castiel’s laugh vibrates into his mouth.

“What’s it been, now? Three weeks?”

It feels that way, it does, and when Castiel breaks the kiss to stifle a laugh in his shoulder Dean’s momentarily bewildered. “Not three yet?” he tries to correct himself. “Two?”

“Five days, Dean,” Castiel manages between hushed breathy laughter. “We’ve been married five days.”

 

  
Dean sits up, dragging Castiel with him. Castiel obediently shifts to sit in Dean’s lap, the two of them pressed together, unabashedly intimate. Dean’s thumbs curl around Castiel’s hipbones. “How can it be only five days?” he says. “Feel like we’ve been like this forever.”

“Well.” Castiel gives him a reproachful look. “We haven’t been getting a lot of sleep, so that adds to the illusion.”

“Five days? Are you sure?”

“Positive.” Castiel leans forward, kisses his neck. Dean shudders, pulls him in. They’re close enough to grind, but Cas’ hips are infuriatingly still, and Dean can’t help it— Castiel makes him want so much so often. He lets out a small whine, which Castiel misinterprets. “I mean it. It can’t have been a week because we haven’t been to a party yet.”

Dean blinks. The mindless swell of lust inside him takes a back seat to this new, odd information. “Party?” He sits upright. “What do you mean, party?”

Castiel’s mouth rounds into an O. “I didn’t mention it?”

“No, Cas.” Now it’s Dean’s turn to be reproachful. “You didn’t mention it.”

“Oh.” Castiel eases off his lap and stands. With the teak of the bookcases and the skylight’s illumination behind him, he looks at once ethereal and deadly serious, like some strict-ass celestial librarian here to enforce discipline. It’s a convoluted image, but a sexy librarian is a sexy librarian, and Dean’s turned on. At least for a moment. Then a flicker of worry skitters across Castiel’s face and Dean has to leave the fantasy behind.

“OK, now you’re freaking me out a little,” Dean says, fishing the book up off the floor. “What kind of party is this?”

“It’s…” Castiel’s jaw shuts, and he ponders a moment before continuing. “It’s nothing to worry about. It’s a weekly get-together among angels and their spouses. A chance for us to all socialize.”

_Nothing to worry about_ is the single phrase in the English language most likely to make Dean worry. But Cas is agitated, and that keeps him from saying so. He says instead, “So it’s like a heavenly BBQ?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been to one. You need to be married.” Castiel’s eyes are darting here and there, and he keeps opening and closing his lips even between words. Dean gets up, puts the book back, all the time glancing at him. Castiel’s more nervous about this than Dean could possibly be.

He resolves to be the cool and collected one. “Don’t worry, dude. I’m good with parties, good with people. When is it?”

“Tomorrow night,” Castiel says. “At the home of the angel Uriel. We will be expected.”

“And we’ll be there.” Dean crosses back to Castiel and smiles, laying a hand on his shoulder. “There’s nothing to worry about, Cas. We’ll be the life of the party.”

“Dean.” The word comes out short and sharp, and Castiel’s eyes focus on him fast enough to freeze him mid-breath. “There may be… etiquette to these gatherings that you’re not used to. I… I’ve told you I don’t wish to change you, but at least for now, can I ask that you don’t…” He presses his lips together briefly. “That you refrain from causing a commotion?”

Dean’s heart freezes. He can hear Sam’s voice in his head now, clear as it was before Dean got married. _This is what I was talking about, Dean,_ says the voice, tenor and tense, in his mind. _This is the first step. They want you to act like someone you’re not, be someone you’re not. Who knows what they’ll want you to do next. Don’t do it, Dean. You’re your own man. Don’t let them take that from you._

But Dean got married anyway. He lucked into marrying an angel who doesn’t want to change him, but Dean had already made the decision. Right now, somewhere, Sam is finally breathing free and easy, and his parents are wanting for nothing, because of the contract he signed and the compromises he agreed to make. The fact that he hasn’t had to make them so far is beside the point. He still agreed.

And just as important, Castiel looks terrified. Having just married into the bizarre world of the angels, Dean can’t possibly begin to know what kind of pressure Castiel is under. Pressure he might have felt for years to take a good husband, to be a proper master of his household. Perhaps he’s afraid Dean will speak to him too casually, too familiarly. That he won’t play the modest husband that the books all advertised he needed to be. If the effect would be causing Castiel that level of mortification, then sure. Dean can dial it back for a night.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, brushing his mouth against Castiel’s. He slides his thumbs under Castiel’s cheekbones, looks him in the eye and smiles. “I’ll behave.”

“Truly?” Castiel takes a breath, shudders as he exhales it. He looks like a gust of wind would knock him right over.

Dean wraps his arms around Castiel. “Truly,” he says. “I’ll be good.”  
  



	17. Part Sixteen

Dean thought nothing could be more impressive than Castiel’s house, with its pillars and gardens, and the sheer amount of light and space. But pulling up to Uriel’s mansion, Dean’s leaning out of the car, his jaw practically scraping the ground. There are spotlights in the front yard, white discs searching the sky, and from within the walls (lit with colored floodlights, like some sort of disco) comes the deep thrum of a bass beat. The house itself is white and frigid, a huge cube of window and wall, and there are angels on the lawns talking, a few on a balcony up top. Dean had thought there were no more than a few dozen angels in the Lawrence area. Either he’s underestimated the numbers or angels have come from all around to attend this party. There must be two dozen people outside.

He glances at Castiel. The whole ride over Cas has been silent, nervous. Dean reached over halfway through the ride to hold his hand, and Castiel took it, a flicker of a smile on his face, and then went right back into contemplation. Dean can’t begin to imagine what he’s feeling right now. What must he be so nervous about?

 

  
“It’ll be OK,” Dean says as they exit the car, and Castiel nods, but continues to not look at him. When Dean reaches for his hand, Castiel jerks back. His eyes meet Dean’s for an instant, and regret lingers there before fading into cold detachment.

Uriel greets them at the door. A large, stocky black angel, with a cue-ball bald head, he stretches his thick lips into a smile and embraces Castiel warmly. “I am so glad to see you, brother!” Uriel says. “You look well. Married life agrees with you.”

“As it does all of us,” Castiel replies, and Dean knows his smile is insincere. He can feel Castiel’s nerves from here, and he wants nothing more than to reach out and hold Cas close. He does not. Instead he stands obediently, waiting to be introduced.

The introduction does happen. Uriel instead slings his arm around Castiel and leads him inward, leaving Dean behind. Momentarily unsure if he should follow or not, Dean wavers, and a slight man with a tousle of chestnut hair passes by. “Sorry,” he says, nervously, and shrinks back. There’s something about him that raises the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck.He watches the young man go, then hears his name being called, sharply, by Castiel.

“Sorry,” he says, giving his best sheepish grin, and hurries forward through the hallway into a he sitting room. Wraparound couches surround a low coffee table laden with snacks and drinks, and all around it angels sit, some with their husbands attending to them, some alone. A gaunt man massages one angel’s shoulders; a slender black man sits at his angel’s feet, handing him snacks individually. None of the husbands speak, though the angels engage in loud conversation. For the first time, Dean feels as though he’s facing the kind of marriage he’d expected to get himself into as well.

An angel on the far side of the room presses two fingers to his husband’s lips, then his own. The husband gets up dutifully and lets the angel kiss him. It’s a messy, intimate kiss, and Dean squirms a bit watching it. Not that he’s opposed to a bit of public fun, but it smacks so much of coercion that all the sexiness of it is swallowed in the crawling of his stomach. This man doesn’t look at all like Dean’s sure he does when Castiel asks for a kiss.

Castiel sets gingerly down in the center of the couch, and he beckons to Dean to join him. Dean sits next to him, starts to sling his arms around Castiel, then feels the prickle of a few dozen surprised glances and withdraws. Don’t make a scene, he reminds himself. You’re not supposed to make a scene.

“So brother,” Uriel says, sitting down beside Castiel and looking down at Dean with an amused glint in his eye, “Tell us. How is marriage to the ever-elusive Dean Winchester?”

Dean starts. What the hell does that mean? But Castiel’s hand is a tight squeeze on his thigh all of a sudden, and he bites back the barrage of angry questions in his throat. For Cas. If nothing else, for Cas.

“Perhaps you found him elusive,” Castiel says lightly. “I have found him nothing but cooperative.”

“That’s owing solely to your copious social charms, I’m sure.” The rest of the crowd roars at this, and Dean looks up at one of the loudest guffaws. The angel falls silent, stunned. Dean scowles at him for extra measure, and the angel recovers himself and scowls back. A bolt of pain goes through Dean’s body, and he crumples in on himself. Beside him, Castiel jerks as though jolted himself, but he does not turn to see if Dean is all right.

“If I had known you were so interested,” Castiel says, “I may have let you have him.”

Uriel chuckles. “I’m pleased with my own, thank you. If not completely satisfied.” He beckons, and the chestnut-haired boy from earlier crosses the room and sits obediently at Uriel’s feet. “Weber, a glass of wine,” Uriel says, and the boy rises again, crosses the room, and retrieves a glass for him. Dean wants to snarl. It’s like Uriel was just waiting for Weber to sit down before forcing him to get up again. An object lesson in obedience. For his husband’s benefit? Or Dean’s?

“I think it’s safe to say that none of us are entirely satisfied,” another angel says. “But then again, that is the whole point, now, isn’t it?”

“The quest for a perfect marriage,” Uriel intones. “Indeed. We all have our baby steps to take before it can come to fruition.”

Dean listens to it all, stunned . He doesn’t know what they’re talking about, but it sounds almost as if they’re engaging in some grand experiment. Is there a purpose to his marriage beyond just loving and being loved? He can’t wrap his brain around it. He sits, frozen, cogitating wildly as the angels turn their conversation to the liberation fo the West Coast from the demon menace and the continued efforts at rebuilding the Rocky Mountain area. Once Castiel glances his way, and concern is bright in his eyes. But there’s a dark sheen of warning there, too, and for the umpteenth time, Dean bites back his questions.

After a while, Uriel stands. “I think it’s time now for conference,” he says. “Castiel, come upstairs with us. You’ll observe the others before it is your turn.”

The angels rise, and Castiel does the same. He wavers, and instinctively, Dean rises to steady him.

Uriel hisses like a cobra. “The husbands are to stay here,” he says.

“Of course,” Castiel rejoins hastily. “Dean.” His tone is cold, warning, and Dean sits back down. If it weren’t for the single, sympathetic flash in Castiel’s eyes, Dean would be frightened by the coldness of his tone. He might even question if he knows Castiel anywhere near as well as he thought he did.

He follows Castiel with his eyes only, then, until the angels have all ascended a staircase and left sight, and then turns his gaze back to the room, now littered with eaten food, empty glasses, and a dozen or so abandoned husbands. None of them says a word, none of them even looks at him. It’s as though he’s invisible. Now Dean really starts to shake. What the hell is wrong with all these people? How can they sit there, eyes downcast, not talking, barely even breathing?

It’s one thing to read about the submissive husbands of angels. It’s another thing entirely to be surrounded by them. Dean’s panicking. He won’t survive another minute like this, silent, holding himself in. And the angels are all upstairs. Does it count as making a scene if no angel is there to see it?

What the hell. Sam would want him to be himself. It’s worth a shot.

He stands and waves. “Hi,” he says. “I’m Dean.”

Ten frightened faces look up at his in unison.

_Crap,_ he thinks. _Holy crap._

“Um… what’s up?”


	18. Part Seventeen

Dean is met with a roomful of blank stares.

He grins, waves again, goes on. “So you guys are all angel husbands, too, right?” he says. “Cool.” He frowns. “I mean, not cool, since I’m sure it kind of sucks a lot of the time, but it’s nice to meet you, anyway. So what do we do when they’re upstairs being angel-y? Anyone wanna play beer pong?”

Another round of blank stares. The chestnut-haired boy, the one Uriel had called Weber, starts to speak, but stops again quickly.

Dean’s hope fades. No wonder Castiel was scared to death of this party. “Wow,” he says, “so you all just sit here silently? Seriously?”

One of the husbands breaks his silence long enough to shush Dean wordlessly.

“Seriously?” Dean says again. He sits down, leans in toward the center of the group, and whispers. “Can they hear us?”

The one with the long face clears his throat. “We just… _don’t,_ ” he says.

 

  


“Why not?”

“They didn’t tell us we could,” says another, a younger man with platinum-blond hair.

“You wait for them to tell you you can do anything?” Dean gapes.

The blond gapes right back. “You _don’t_?”

Dean sits back, his jaw still open, trying to make sense of it. Sure, he’s heard all the conventional wisdom about how subservient a husband has to be to his angel, but this is on another order altogether. He used the word _slavery_ in a half-joke to Castiel at one point. But it’s hard to make light of it now, watching them all, eyes burning with rebellion but not daring to move.

He opts for the indirect approach. “Come on,” he blurts out. “You need an angel to excuse you to take a leak?”

“Yes,” says Weber.

“ _What?”_

“We need to ask to be excused,” says the gaunt-faced man. “They say yes, but we do have to ask.”

“Well, that’s dumb,” Dean says. “They want their husbands running around with full bladders? What a bunch of dicks.”

The flinch from the room is instantaneous and terrified. Dean looks up, as though divine punishment might issue from the second floor. But nothing happens, and as the group of husbands realizes it, they look up and then around at each other, surprised, daring to connect for the first time.

Dean smiles. “See? The world didn’t end. Maybe you guys have more freedom than you think.”

Weber shakes his head. “Your angel must be remarkably lenient. But you don’t speak for us. We’ve all dared, at least once…” His eyes shift downward briefly, and Dean thinks he sees them focus in on a spot, perhaps the location of a hidden bruise or scar.

“Oh, this is so screwed up,” Dean murmurs. Anger rushes through him, and in the middle of it all a note of thankfulness that Castiel is the angel he is. But how can Castiel be so kind and the rest of them so uniformly cruel? It doesn’t make sense. Still, one sweep of his eyes around the room and Dean can see that it’s so. The blond is touching his mouth and wincing; the gaunt-faced man lowers his head and clutches his arm. It’s only now that Dean notices another of the husbands has a finger missing.

Holy _crap._

“Why?” he asks, mind blown. “Why would you put up with that? Angel or no angel, that’s above and beyond douchebaggery. That’s abuse!”

“I have my reasons,” says the gaunt man, and his fingers tighten on his arm.

Dean rises and moves toward him. “What the hell kind of reason could you possibly have—”

Sad eyes meet his. “My brother,” he says. “My little brother, Nick.”

Dean stops. It’s the one word he would always stop for. _Brother._

“The demons killed his whole family,” the man says. “His wife, his beautiful little boy. Ever since, he’s been strange. He won’t talk about the attack, he’s withdrawn…” He heaves a sigh. “The angel said they could bring them back to life. And before I even told him, Nick came to me, said he dreamed his wife came back, she said she would come back to life for real if I said yes.”

Dean can’t speak. It’s too frightening, too horrible. The pain in the man’s face, the decision he had to make — he must have to remind himself every day, with every insult and every blow, that with one wrong step his brother could lose everything again. On the whim of an angel. It’s wrong, it’s a devil’s deal. But isn’t it the same deal Dean’s made?

“Is it the same with you?” He turned to the platinum blond. “Someone in your life you had to protect?”

The blond nods. “I have a little brother, too. Asher. He’s fourteen, and he’s sick all the time. Can’t get out of bed. Every time we think he’s doing better, he relapses. The angels said there was a monster feeding on him, that they could get rid of it, make sure it stays away…”

Another of the husbands, one who hasn’t spoken up before, suddenly says, “It’s my brother too.”

Another chimes in, “Mine, too.”

Weber says, “I’ve never met my brother, but they said I would get to meet him, that they’d track him down if I agreed to marry.”

It’s a chorus, a cacophony of the word “brother” spoken again and again, and Dean’s head is spinning. He gets up, stands in the middle of the cluster of husbands. “So everyone… everyone here did this for their brother?”

Nods all around. The husbands cluster together now, telling their stories, anxious to speak after who knows how many years of silence. Dean, however, looks toward the staircase. Castiel had said there were things Dean couldn’t know, but he never expected something like this. What the hell is going on?

Whatever it is, he’s not about to stand around and let it happen. Clenching his fists, Dean heads for the stairs. Castiel has some explaining to do.


	19. Part Eighteen

Dean’s halfway up the stairs, halfway to forbidden territory. Behind him, the other husbands are mortified. They try to shush him, to beckon him back, but Dean looks over his shoulder and puts a finger to his lips. Gives them his best, confident smile, the same one he always gave Sam when Sam asked, “I’ll get to go out and see for myself someday, right? I’m going to get better, Dean, right?”

Inside, he’s burning. Confusion and anger are boiling inside his ribcage, and the smile he gives feels as fake as everything he thought he and Castiel had until this moment. How much of it is a lie? If Dean was targeted for marriage, like all those guys downstairs, what else has Castiel done that meant something utterly different from what Dean had thought it meant? If Cas didn’t marry him because he loved him, if he married him because he was on some sort of list of Guys With Brothers, what else in Dean’s world could yet crumble?

Sam. His thoughts immediately go to Sam. Is he okay? Are his parents okay? What if all the angels’ promises were empty?  
  
He’s halfway down the upstairs hallway and ready to sprint the rest of the way to knock down the closed door at the end when Uriel’s voice stops him with a muffled “And now, Castiel, it is your turn.”

Dean creeps, instead of runs, to the door and presses his ear up against it. He hears Castiel’s voice, meek and hesitant, saying “Yes, brother.” Dean’s heart seizes up. God damn it, even if Castiel _has_ been lying to him, Dean hates to hear him like that. He’s fallen damn hard for the son of a bitch, and he just wants to barge in, grab Cas by the shoulders and hold him until that nervous tone fades forever from his voice.

But he doesn’t. He waits. He wants to know just what it’s Castiel’s turn to do.

“I have married Dean Winchester,” Castiel says slowly. “He is… fairly cooperative. It has been one week, and I have completed three of the thirteen sacraments.” 

Dean’s heart freezes. The  what!?

“Four in one week?” Uriel gives a round of deep laughter. “Well, my brother, you certainly have an auspicious start to your relationship. Tell us, which of the three?”

“I have…” He trails off.

“Go on, then.” Uriel’s encouragement is echoed around the room, a dozen angel voices urging Castiel to continue. Dean’s encouraging him too, in his mind.  Go on, Cas. Tell me what the hell you’ve done to me.

“I have fed him from my table,” Castiel began. “I have tasted nectar from his lips. And I have…” Dean could practically hear the blood rushing to Castiel’s cheeks. “I have owned his body.”

The angels break into laughter and spontaneous applause.  Like a bunch of 14-year-olds in the locker room, Dean thinks with derision, even in the midst of his confusion.  Lose your virginity, get slapped on the back like it’s your birthday.

“And what were the results?” Uriel continues when the angels quiet down.

“Satisfactory,” Castiel says.

“That is good news indeed. Continue to keep me apprised of the situation, Castiel. We look forward to your next progress report. The conference is adjourned.” 

“Brother,” Castiel says abruptly. The angels have started to mill about, and at Castiel’s word they are silent again.

A pause. “Yes, Castiel? You have a question?”

“I have not heard an update on Dean’s family situation. Might I ask after his brother, his parents?”

Dean’s breath catches in his throat. He jams his ear against the door, as though it will make the answer come faster.

“That is none of your concern,” Uriel says, voice cold.

“I only meant,” Castiel says hurriedly, “I was curious about Sam’s progress. Because my own progress is going so well.”

“You needn’t worry about that,” Uriel says. “Dismissed, Castiel.” The socializing continues, and this time Castiel does not interrupt it with his own voice.

Dean can barely hear over the din of his own heartbeat, the rush of his blood. Progress? Is Castiel talking about getting rid of Sam’s demon blood infection, or is there something else? Some other kind of sinister “progress” like the kind Castiel said he was making on Dean?

He wants, more than anything, to pull open the door, to stand there and scowl and demand explanations from the throng of merrily conversing, carefree, callous angels that laugh within. His fingers are creeping of their own volition toward the doorknob. He wants to know. He has to know.

But downstairs. Nick holding his arm. Weber looking down at his scar. That missing finger.

Dean could put them all in danger if he makes a wrong move now. He could cause more suffering. As much as he’s dying to ask a million questions of Castiel, he can’t do that to the others. They don’t have the freedom he does. He has to play it cool.

He slinks back down the hall and comes down the stairs. The rest of the husbands forget themselves and run to him, questions on their lips, but  Dean just raises his finger to his lips one more time. This time without smiling. They all get the message.

They’ve retreated back to their seats around the table by the time the angels return, still chatting. And though they’re silent, the husbands are still all glancing at Dean, looking for a sign of what he’d seen or heard upstairs. Dean wishes he could tell them, but he can’t. Not when he himself doesn’t know what any of it means.

Castiel comes around the table and puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder. His touch is as familiar as ever, and Dean turns instinctively to look up at him. The weariness, the worry are etched into Castiel’s face, and a surge of sympathy shoots through Dean before he’s shouting to himself.  No, no, you idiot. He’s fooling you, he’s playing you. He can’t quite bring himself to believe it, but he tries to think it nonetheless.

The ice must flash across his eyes, because Castiel draws back, startled. Dean tries to soften his gaze, but it’s too late. Castiel’s hand on his shoulder tightens. “We’re leaving now,” he announces. 

One of the other husbands makes an involuntary noise, a strangled protest. His angel looks down and he pretends he is just coughing. Dean gets up and turns away from the group. Knowing he has to leave them behind sucks, but it doesn’t suck nearly as much as Castiel holding him by the neck, marching him out and saying, low enough that only Dean can hear and grave enough that Dean believes it:

“You’re in serious trouble, Dean.”


	20. Part Nineteen

Silence persists down the walk of Uriel’s house and into the car. When the car door shuts them away from prying eyes and ears, Castiel turns to Dean and hisses, “You promised, Dean. You said you wouldn’t make a scene.”

“I didn’t make a scene.”

“You did something.” Castiel scowls and looks over the dashboard as though he could burn up the pavement. In the rear view mirror, Uriel’s house is disappearing, a shrinking white dot. Dean can’t leave it behind fast enough. He mentally wills Castiel to step on the gas, but Castiel’s speed is disturbingly constant. Maybe it’s another angel taboo to drive above the speed limit. Dean is not liking _anything_ he’s learning about angels tonight.

 

They’re home before Castiel talks to him again. “What did you do?” he says, then storms ahead and up the stairs, heading toward the bedroom they’ve been sharing for the past week. Dean wonders briefly if he’s going to get to sleep there again tonight.

But Castiel doesn’t throw him out as he steps over the threshold, and that’s a relief. Dean had thought he might be exiled to his own room, the place where he goes to get changes of clothes but in general hasn’t hung out a lot. There’s been too much lovemaking, too much kissing to do. And a sick, selfish fear rises in Dean’s stomach that all that might be over. That in itself is almost worse than the lying.

“What did you do?” Castiel says again, and adds, “Did you talk to them?”

Dean feigns nonchalance. “What, the other husbands? Of course I did. They didn’t talk back much—”

“That should have been a cue to you not to disturb the peace.” Castiel’s more nervous than furious, Dean thinks, despite his deep scowl and the sharp snap of his words.

“Oh, well, sorry for being so slow on the uptake.” The sarcasm in Dean’s voice is thick enough to slice.  “Someone told me it was a party. But I guess that’s not really what it was, huh, Cas? With your secret conferences upstairs.”

“Dean—”

“No, you know what?” Dean snaps. “I’m not the one who has to explain himself, Cas. What the hell was that party, huh? And what the hell is wrong with your angel pals? That’s how they treat their husbands? Why don’t you just call them what they are — slaves, free punching bags is more like it. Did you even hear your buddy Uriel talking? _Get me some wine, Weber. Kiss me, Weber. Sit here_ _and don’t make a sound_ _while I go upstairs, Weber._ Poor guy. All he wants to do is meet his brother, for that—”

Castiel has paled. Dean stops short.

“You said they didn’t talk back to you,” Castiel says. Now the fear is outright dread on his face, and he’s trembling.

“They didn’t,” Dean says, “not at first. But we got to talking.” He crosses the room, looks out the window, trying to figure out how to phrase his million questions. The cool glass feels good as he raises his palm to it. Clears him out, grounds him. He takes a deep breath.

“Why us?” he asks. “Why me?”

Castiel is stepping closer; Dean can feel his heat. He glances at the pale reflection in the window.

“I married you because I love you,” Castiel says. “Everything else aside, that is still true.”

“But it’s not the whole story.” Dean frowns at the mirror-image Castiel. “What’s the deal, Cas? Why get to us through our brothers? And what are those three things you said you did to me?”

Castiel gasps again, and his mouth shuts into a tight line. Dean doesn’t need him to speak; the accusation is right there. _You spied on us._

Dean turns to face him. “You asked me not to ask questions once upon a time, I know. But how am I supposed to believe you after what I saw tonight, huh?” He ventures forward, takes Castiel’s hands. “You have to level with me.”

Castiel sighs. He looks down at their joined hands mournfully and squeezes Dean’s fingers. “It’s very hard to say no to you when you’re touching me,” he says. “Fine. I will tell you what I know, but you must promise not to speak of it to the others. Even if it means discomfort. If you should tell the others, they would all face punishment worse than you can imagine.”

Dean doesn’t like that bargain, but he’ll take what he can get. “Sure.”

His eyes lowered, Castiel backs away from Dean’s touch and sits on the bed. “It’s our mission,” he says.

“To marry dudes?”

“Not specifically. But because one of the thirteen sacraments is owning of the body, marriage seems to be the best way to go about that.”

“What are these thirteen… things?”

Castiel looks at him silently, his gaze patient. Dean takes a moment, then joins him, sitting cross-legged on the bed, waiting for his answer.

It comes in a soft lilt, and as he speaks Castiel seems to gaze at some place faraway.

_When the demons have arisen to rule over the earth,_  
 _The angel shall descend to the human realm._  
 _He shall find the One and bind to him._  
 _He shall feed him with the food from his table,_  
 _and he shall drink the nectar from his lips._  
 _He shall guide him to righteousness_  
 _and cleanse him of his transgressions._  
 _He shall give him wings to fly_  
 _and legs to stand upright upon the earth._  
 _He shall bind him in chains_  
 _And give to him angelic robes._  
 _He shall own his body,_  
 _and knock at the doors of his soul._  
 _He shall deliver him unto the company of the angels_  
 _And cast him into the pit of devils._  
 _And thus the One will rise_  
 _And bring the earthly paradise again._  
  
Castiel bows his head. The hush that falls on the room is heavier and more complete than snowfall.

“Wha—” Dean’s voice catches in his throat. He coughs and starts again. “What does all that mean? The One? Am I in the Matrix or something?”

“It means we are seeking someone,” Castiel says. “I don’t know who, or why, only that it is very important.”

“And when you find him?”

“Then our elders, the Archangels, descend. After that, I promise you, Dean, I don’t know. I only know we are to marry, and to perform the thirteen sacraments.”

“Yeah, about those.” Dean crosses his arms, scowling. “I get the food from your table bit, but how the hell do you knock on the doors of my soul?”

“I suspect there are a number of ways.” Castiel’s ready answer throws Dean. The guy really is an angel, if he’s that casual about it. “Not all of them are pleasant. But I will be as delicate as I can with you, Dean. That I promise.”

Dean snorts. “I’m not exactly a wilting flower.”

“I wasn’t going to mention that.” Castiel’s lips quirk. For an instant the somber mood is lifted, and it’s just the two of them, connecting again, being together. They’re so, so good at it, and Dean has a sudden, aching urge to take Cas in his arms and promise that whatever they have to do, they’ll do it together.

Instead, he touches Castiel’s hand. “Why did you choose me?” he asks. “I mean, I know, you said you love me, but how? How come all those other angels treat their husbands like that, and you’re so different?”

Castiel lays his free hand over Dean’s, enveloping his fingers in warmth. His eyes blaze blue honesty across the small gap between them. “Time is different for angels,” he says. “I saw you, and I saw everything you had seen and done, Dean. I saw what you’ve done for your family, for your brother. How much you’ve tried to be everything your family needed. And… it moved me. I don’t know why. Certainly the world is full of admirable humans. But you… you seemed so uniquely unaware of your own righteousness. And I wanted so much to show you that you were worth something.”

Dean’s face has gone slack. He doesn’t know how to take this. At once embarrassment is curling his stomach and a thousand protests are rising up in his throat.

Castiel doesn’t notice. He’s correcting himself, shaking his head, a fond smile on his face. “No,” he says, “not just something. You’re worth everything to me, Dean. And even if there were no sacraments, no marriage, I would still want to be with you. Maybe that’s strange, but it’s the way I feel.”

“I know.” Dean swallows the words that were rising up in his throat. Saying those, now, would be more embarrassing still than having his praises sung.

They stare at each other, quiet, for a minute. So much new knowledge, new revelations and new honesty is settling into both of them, and it’s hard to know what to do next.

Dean goes with his first instinct, the one that he couldn’t act on before. He reaches forward and pulls Castiel into his arms. Weight settles over him, and Castiel clings to him like a drowning man, breath breaking down into short pants as his shoulders shake and he lets go of the evening’s worth of terrible tension.

“I won’t let you go, Dean,” he murmurs into Dean’s shoulder. “I can’t.”

“OK,” Dean answers, kissing his face, his ear and cheek. “OK. We’ll do this together, Cas. We’ll do your thirteen rituals and we’ll find out what happens.”

“Thank you.” Castiel strains in the tightness of Dean’s grip to kiss him. Their lips meet. It’s a moment of brilliant, pure sensation, and thought fades for a merciful instant.

Dean cradles Castiel’s face in his hands, gazes at him, and then breaks into a grin. “Besides,” he says. “I have a few ideas on how we can make that list kind of fun.”


	21. Part Twenty

It’s posted on the refrigerator.

A few lines are crossed out, to indicate the sacraments they’ve already completed. Three down, ten to go, though when Dean tries to count them he alternatively comes up with nine, ten, and eleven. Castiel assures him it’s a quirk of the translation. Apparently the same thing happens if you look at the Ten Commandments too carefully. Dean believes him.

_When the demons have arisen to rule over the earth,_  
 _The angel shall descend to the human realm._  
 _He shall find the One and bind to him._  
 ~~_He shall feed him with the food from his table,_ ~~  
~~_and he shall drink the nectar from his lips._ ~~  
_He shall guide him to righteousness_  
 _and cleanse him of his transgressions._  
 _He shall give him wings to fly_  
 _and legs to stand upright upon the earth._  
 _He shall bind him in chains_  
 _And give to him angelic robes._  
 ~~_He shall own his body,_ ~~  
_and knock at the doors of his soul._  
 _He shall deliver him unto the company of the angels_  
 _And cast him into the pit of devils._  
 _And thus the One will rise_  
 _And bring the earthly paradise again._

 

 

Dean’s staring at the list the next morning, frowning, trying to determine just what happens next. How does Castiel guide him to righteousness? Binding in chains sounds kind of kinky, but other than that, until Dean knows a bit more about what’s going on, he’s going to have some trouble fulfilling his promise to make the sacraments fun.

Castiel sneaks up behind him, lays a kiss on his neck that makes him shiver top to bottom. “Morning to you too,” Cas says, laughing, when Dean’s hands close into fists and he jerks away. The initial surprise and shudder fade soon enough, and Dean relaxes, reaches out and pulls Cas back into his arms. They share a leisurely kiss, Dean licking the hint of mint from Castiel’s toothpaste off the tip of his tongue.

“Morning, owner of my body,” Dean says, growling against the softness of Castiel’s lower lip. “What do we get to do today?”

Castiel’s hips shift next to his, and Dean curls his hands around them, feeling for himself just what Castiel wouldn’t mind doing. The heat builds so easily between them, sweet and golden, and he’s letting the kisses linger, letting the two of them start to slip across the floor, ready to go find the nearest couch or bed or carpet, ready to spend more and more time exploring and tasting and enjoying each other.

His stomach is empty, though, and what’s more, he still has the bizarre verse ringing in his head, its cryptic phrases stealing his thought every so often. He extracts himself gently from Castiel’s embrace and opens the refrigerator to forage for food. “So I’ve been looking at this thing,” he says, fishing out milk and eggs and a pair of plump oranges. “Trying to make sense of it, but it just doesn’t compute. How do you guide me to righteousness?”

Castiel takes one of the oranges from his hands and tosses it into the air, eyes following its arc before he reaches out to catch it again. “Any number of ways,” he says. “I was thinking of using a blindfold, actually.”

Dean nearly cracks an egg laughing. “Kinky bastards, you angels.”

“It’s not entirely a joke.” Castiel sits at the table and spins the orange impressively on the tip of one finger as Dean gets out a pan and starts to fry up the eggs. “A sacrament is by its definition the physical representation of a spiritual ideal.”

“How physical are we talking?” Dean says with a wink.

Castiel smirks in return and continues. “To guide you to righteousness, I would need to be the one dictating your movements, without your making decisions about which way to go. One way to do that would be by blindfolding you and leading you along a path to a sacred or blessed location.”

Dean works a fork through the eggs. The pan rattles on the burner. “Like what, a church? There aren’t many of those left, you know.”

He ponders the concept of churches as the eggs sizzle in the pan. Before the demons, people used to go there and worship God, pray to the big invisible being in the sky who seemed never to answer. Then the demons came. With the supernatural in evidence on the earth for all to see, praying to a higher power took a back seat to just dialing one up on the phone and asking for a favor.

When the demons issued the order to destroy houses of worship, the edict was greeted with apathy by most. Churches and mosques and temples of any sort weren’t really needed anymore. Mom used to pray quietly, in the corner, and when she caught Dean looking, she warned him not to mention it to anyone, or she’d get in trouble.

Dean had a feeling, though, that when things got bad, just before the angels came, most everyone was hunkering down in their own houses and offering silent prayers up to whoever could possibly save them.

Mom cried the day the angels came. She must have thought her prayers had been answered, Dean figures. But the more Dean learns about the angels, the more he’s not so sure the angels came to help anybody but themselves.

Castiel has been thinking as Dean’s been lost in reminiscence. “No, there aren’t many left,” he says at last. “But that might be a good idea.”

“Are they even still sacred ground?” Dean says. “If the demons destroyed them…”

“The demons ordered their destruction. But human hands that tore them down. If they were blessed,” Castiel says, his voice breathy with discovery, “then they still are blessed.”

Dean lifts the pan from the burner and slides the eggs onto a plate. “So I guess we’re taking a field trip, then.”

* * *

He’s blindfolded in the car, and Castiel seems to take more twists and turns than absolutely necessary. Dean’s so fully disoriented that he honestly has no idea where he is by the time the car finally lurches to a stop and he makes his sightless way onto the sidewalk. He tracks Castiel by the sound of his footsteps, reaches out to touch his hand when he knows it’s close.

“This is kind of disorienting,” he mutters.

“It’s all right,” Castiel says, and his voice has taken on that hypnotic charm. “Just follow me.”

He steps away from Dean’s grasp, and Dean has to quiet, to listen for his soft breathing in order to take a tentative step in his direction. With each step he takes — and now his feet fall onto grass instead of concrete — Castiel’s steps and breathing are fainter, and he has to listen harder. “Cas,” he says, hand flailing forward, and as though punishing him Castiel is utterly still for a far-too-long moment. The inhalation comes though, finally, and Dean takes an eager, impatient step forward.

His fingers scrape rock. Stung, he withdraws them, blows on the reddened pads of his fingertips, and reaches out again more gingerly. There’s a column in front of him, jagged stone that must have once been polished and smooth. Another step and he would have bashed his head on it.

“Damn it, Cas,” he says. “You trying to get me killed?”

No answer. No sound. The wind blows a harsh gust against his ears, and they sting, too.

“Cas?”

His voice bounces off the stone of the pillar he nearly ran into. Dean swears he can feel the vibrations as the echo shoots back at him. There’s still no sound.

“Come on, Cas, how are you supposed to guide me if I can’t see you? I thought I wasn’t supposed to move without your say-so. At least tell me you’re around here somewhere.”

Cas does nothing of the sort. Or if he does, Dean can’t hear it.

He’s lost in a pitch-black world. Light isn’t even filtering in through the thick black mass of fabric Cas has somehow put together to form a blindfold. He has no hints from the fall of shadows, and the wind has died down. Dean stands still, trying desperately to take in any input whatsoever. There’s nothing.

“All right,” he mumbles. “No worries. He’s probably just gone somewhere. I’ll wait.”

He waits. There’s nothing. Not for minutes. Dean’s standing in the middle of God knows where with a blindfold over his face. And he’s not supposed to move. How the hell is this a sacrament? This is a practical joke.

“Cas,” he warns, “if you don’t say something, I’m gonna take this blindfold off right now.”

Why does he even wait? If Cas were going to say something, he would have said it by now. But one more time, Dean waits, and one more time, he hears nothing. Grumbling, he lifts his hands to the bolt of cloth around his eyes and removes it.

Or tries to. It won’t budge.

“What the hell?” Dean tries to slide his fingers under it, tries to undo the knot. It’s clasped to him like it’s been riveted to his head, immovable as steel. Some kind of angelic mojo, no doubt, and nothing that Dean can hope to remove on his own. He needs Cas. And Cas is nowhere.

And so is Dean, or he might as well be. He has no idea what ruins these are, which church it once was, if they’re in town or out of it. There could be people around, or angels, watching his progress, but he can’t sense anyone nearby. Most likely it’s someplace remote, someplace he’s never been.

He’s alone, blind and lost. What the hell is he supposed to do now?


	22. Part Twenty-One

“Cas?”

Nothing but a gust of wind, bitter and chill, against his face.

“Cas, come on.”

He’s been standing here for ages, or maybe it’s only been a few seconds, but the wind and the fear has seeped into his bones and he feels as though he’s been left here overnight. He has no idea what time it is, whether it’s day or night. In front of him he has the memory of the pillar he touched, and he leans on it, just to give the blankness that is his perception some shape.

He’s been this lost before. Not physically, but certainly in those days when Sam lost control of himself, when Dean was frightened and couldn’t show it, when he blamed himself for everything and when his father looked at him like he was a disgrace. It was the same consuming blackness, the same feeling that he had no ground to stand on, that nothing he believed could be counted on. Just him versus a vast unknown. He survived that. He can survive this.

  
  


“It’s a puzzle, right?” he says aloud. The sound of his voice, another anchor he can count on. “A test. There’s something I’m supposed to figure out how to do.”

There’s no answer, and a lurch of disappointment sinks like a stone in his throat. But this time it’s not terrifying. Just knowing the pillar exists, his voice exists, gives him a place to start from. He can build on this.

“OK, so if it’s a puzzle, there have to be clues.” His voice is surer now. “Where are the clues? In the verse. Blah blah blah, he will find the one and bind him, blah blah… and he will guide him to righteousness. So… you’re supposed to guide me, right? So where the hell are you, Cas?”

The anger is bubbling up again. He has to control it. “OK. Guide me. To… to righteousness. Into the church, right?”

Silence, no different than the silence before. But it feels wrong this time. Disapproving.

“OK, not into the church. Something else. Righteousness means… knowing what is right.” He snorts. “Duh.”

“Anyway. But you have to guide me on the right path. So I have to know what’s right. OK. I should… just… do what I feel is right. Right?”

The wind blows against his face again. It’s not as cold as it was before. Maybe that’s a sign.

He picks up his foot. Puts it down. Takes a step forward, past the pillar. His hand falls, and the comforting touch of it is gone.

_Just do what feels right._

He steps forward. A few steps. His foot angles to the left and he follows it, goes sideways.  _Don’t ask. Don’t question. Just follow it._

He does, and when his foot comes down on solid ground he exhales fiercely, relieved. Does he dare take another step? Does he dare trust the whims of his body, of some sense he can’t name or define?

He has to. He has no other choice.

But it’s a half-dozen steps before he realizes in a giddy rush that he hasn’t tripped on a thing, he hasn’t run into another pillar. Come to think of it, he didn’t run into the first one, either. Maybe Cas was guiding him then. Maybe Cas knew he needed to have that first anchor before he could let go and trust himself to fall into nothing, trust Cas to catch him. 

Maybe Castiel’s still guiding him, in ways so subtle he can only feel it in his heart. 

_Trust_ , he thinks.  _Have faith. Cas will guide me._

His feet fall faster and surer now. It’s faith. That’s the key word. He has faith in Cas, and he has to have faith in himself, too. Trust that he’s worthy of Castiel’s guidance. It’s hard to do, but it’s easy to believe that Castiel believes it, because through some miracle Cas has found him worthy of love. Dean believes in that love wholly.

He steps. Sometimes higher, sometimes to the side, sometimes dodging things he can’t see, sometimes with almost a leap in his step. Castiel loves him. Castiel won’t let him fall. Dean’s heart is pounding with exhiliration. Cas is close now, he can feel it, and Dean doesn’t think to call out to him. Instead, he just extends his hands and takes a few final steps forward over terrain that’s suddenly not uneven grass but smooth marble.

His fingers curl around a familiar waist. Dean exhales, his lips curling upward.

Castiel’s body is hot and hard against his, so much of it all of a sudden,and Dean melts into it. His fingers travel upward to Castiel’s shoulders, his face. Right here. Real. The quiet of the scene, punctuated only by his own breaths, is broken by the familiar sound of Castiel’s sigh-breath.

Dean catches it in mid-air with his own mouth.

The world of darkness has never been brighter. Dean’s sense are singing with the immediacy and tangibility of Cas in his arms, Cas’s mouth moving under his own, the whimpers of his own breaths and Castiel’s. Relief is making him shake violently, all the sureness of his steps gone. He can let go now, he can fall apart, because Cas is here and Cas will put him back together.

Lithe fingers slide under his blindfold, pull it off as though it were rain clinging to Dean’s face, and when Dean opens his eyes for an instant Castiel’s face appears like a blotch of dark in a sea of white, like an overexposed photograph. Dean blinks to bring him into focus, and when Castiel flings his arms around Dean and holds him tight.

“Look,” he whispers in Dean’s ear. “Look at what you did.”

Dean looks over his shoulder, and his jaw drops. The ruins of this church are a veritable minefield. Great, jagged pieces of stone and concrete rise up from the grass, dangerously exposed. Every other step, rocks and rubble litter the ground, and in one place the earth itself cracks, as though it had tried to swallow up the entirety of the church. If Dean had taken a wrong turn, placed one footfall inaccurately, he would have ended up scratched bruised, on his stomach bleeding, or stuck in that pit with a twisted ankle. But he didn’t. He’s here.

“I made it through _that_?” His mind is bright with wonder.

“Yes.” Castiel touches his face with a reverent hand. “You did.”

Dean’s still grinning, but questions are starting to form in the back of his brain. So he passed a test. What if he hadn’t? More importantly, what does it mean that he did?

All of that falls away when he meets Castiel’s eyes. There’s so much shining there, love and pride and fierce desire, and Dean can’t contain the feelings that are rushing through his own system. He finds himself close to blurting out a sentiment he had just last week told Castiel not to expect him to say.

Not that Dean really knows what love is. But he figures this has to be close. Trusting someone to lead you without words, putting yourself into their hands completely… and then coming into their arms and finding it’s just like home.

He doesn’t say _I love you_ , not yet. But he does say, “Thank you.”

_~~_…He shall guide him to righteousness_ ~~  
_and cleanse him of his transgressions…_ _


	23. Part Twenty-Two

Castiel says he has to go out and buy a few things, so Dean’s lounging around the house, feeling every inch the kept man.  He honestly doesn’t know what to do with himself sometimes, not having to work or worry. He can’t spend every minute of every day dissecting the verses pinned to the refrigerator with a very silly-looking magnet in the shape of a rubber duck, so in between he reads a lot, but a guy’s eyes can get tired. They’re tired today, but his body is awake, and he wants to do something productive.

He decides to go for a jog. He’s not much of a runner, but with this much free time he might as well burn a few calories. With the sunlight touching the top of his head and the breeze cooling his brow, he makes a pretty easy go of it, rounding the block a few times while gazing appreciatively at the other angel mansions that make up the neighborhood.

They’re all large, but some of them are ill-kept, as though their owners spend little time there. Others are trimmed and manicured within an inch of their lives, and some, like Uriel’s a few streets over, just look like prisons. All in all, none of them radiate warmth the way Castiel’s does. Then again, when Dean first pulled up into that driveway he only saw wealth, too. It’s knowing the owner that’s made him look at the place and see home.

When he jogs up to the street that leads to the freeway, Dean stops. He wonders how long it would take him to jog back to his old house. To stop in and see Sam, and Mom and Dad. Probably too long. Castiel will be back soon, and then…

…then _what_? he thinks suddenly. Would Castiel _punish_ him?

  


Of course not. It’s a stupid concept. Dean has no doubt that one of the other angels might punish him, were he unlucky enough to end up with one of them. But Castiel would never be so cruel, even if it’s kind of an unspoken rule that the price of Dean’s marriage is that he can’t see his family again, that he has to trust they’re all right.

But why? What’s wrong with allowing him to have his family? Are the angels so jealous that they don’t allow their husbands to have other people in their lives? No, that’s stupid. And even if the others were like that, Cas isn’t. So why hasn’t Dean seen them yet? Maybe he could, if he just asked. At least, maybe he could call them…

He’s jogged around the block again and found himself back home in the time it’s taken him to think about. Cas still isn’t back. So why not?

He heads into the kitchen and picks up the telephone. The sweat of his fingers leaves little marks on the keys as he dials his folks’ number.

As the ringer sounds on the other end of the line, Dean’s heart rate picks up again, as though he’s been sprinting instead of jogging. The little catch as it’s cut off makes him feel like his heart is going to fly out his throat.

There’s silence on the line.

“Um, hello?” Dean says.

The voice that answers is female, unfamiliar. “Yes, who is this?”

“I— I’m trying to reach the Winchesters.”

Silence. Dean clears his throat and tries again. “John and Mary? Sam?”

“I’m sorry,” the woman says, and there’s something in her tone Dean doesn’t like. “You have the wrong number.”

“Oh.” He’s pretty sure he put the digits in right. “What number did I dial—”

Too late. She’s hung up.

Dean stares at the receiver in his hand a second. Maybe he _did_ dial the wrong number? Slowly, making sure his fingers didn’t slip from the sweat, he dialed again. The ringing began almost immediately, and this time it just went on and on. No voice mail, nobody picked up. Dean frowned. That has to have been the right number. His family hasn’t picked up and moved, have they? In a week and change since he left them to become Castiel’s husband? That seems absurd. And now anxiety is adding to the trepidation and perspiration that are motoring his heart to overdrive, and Dean has to go into the shower before he has a coronary and dies right here on the kitchen floor.

The shower clears his head and calms his heart a bit, and when he comes out, rubbing his head with a towel and with another one rapped around his waist, he finds Castiel standing there, eyes roving over him appreciatively, a smle on his face.

Dean’s first instinct is to run over and drop both towels without a moment’s hesitation. But Castiel is carrying what look to be extremely heavy paper bags, and Dean figures he at least better let the poor guy unload a bit. “Welcome back,” he says with a grin. “Got everything you needed?”

“I think so,” Castiel says, “but I will admit I’m a little unsure. This isn’t my area of expertise.”

Dean reaches over to take one bag from him. “What area is that— _oh._ ”

The tone of glass hitting glass was his first clue, and when he looks into the bag his suspicions are confirmed. Heavy bottles of booze, three of them, and Castiel’s got another set on his other arm. Altogether, it has to be at least two hundred dollars’ worth of the good stuff, from Dom Perignon to spiced rum, and a few specialty liqueurs that Dean hasn’t tasted often in his life. There’s also a giant Johnnie Walker Blue that, frankly, makes Dean’s mouth water.

“The hell, Cas?” he says, half-laughing. “You don’t need to get me drunk to take advantage of me, you know.”

“I know that.” Castiel frowns at him a little too seriously. “This is for a different purpose.”

“I thought you couldn’t even stand to be around the stuff.” Not exactly true. Cas had managed to kiss Dean’s wine-stained lips over and over their first night together. But he’d still winced. “Weren’t your Spidey sinner senses tingling the whole time you were in the liquor store?”

Cas’ scowl deepens. “It was not pleasant. The man behind the counter looked at me … ravenously.” Dean tries not to laugh at that.

Castiel has started to line up the bottles on the top of the dresser.  Dean joins him, admiring each label as he unloads. Bailey’s. Frangelico. Grand Marnier. “So what’s the wetbar for, then?”

“For the sacrament,” Castiel says.

“The sacrament?”

“Yes. I am to cleanse you of your transgressions. I tried to think of a transgression I could induce and then cleanse from you. Drunken debauchery seemed the best option.”

Dean regards a particularly enticing bottle of tequila. “Fair enough. So I just have to get wasted, and then you soak me and we’re done?”

“Not quite,” Castiel says. “But close enough for now.”

Dean should probably ask what the _not quite_ part means. But there are a number of things that stay his tongue. One, Cas probably won’t tell him. Two, he’s good with just getting wasted and letting whatever happens happen. Three, he really doesn’t want to invite back that uncertainty he spent a shower trying to banish.

Four, Cas is starting to look really, really, nervous, and when he looks that nervous half of Dean just wants to hold him and tell him everything will be OK. The other half wants to press his luck.

He turns to the dresser and surveys the spread with arms folded over his chest. “You’re missing something important,” he says sternly.

Castiel gasps. “Oh, no,” he says. “I don’t know much about alcohol. I should have brought you with me. I’ll run out again… what do we need?”

Dean turns to him and grins. “Pizza.”


	24. Part Twenty-Three

Three beers in, Castiel turns to Dean and says, “I think you were right about the pizza.”

Dean blinks. He’s starting to get fuzzy, blood starting to zing as it travels through his body, and for whatever reason Castiel saying that sounds like a non-sequitur and a revelation all at once. “How so?”

“I definitely think it adds something.” Castiel chews thoughtfully on a bite of the good stuff, then swallows and smiles. “There’s a pleasant kick to it.”

“The kick’s not in the pizza, dude.” Dean nods at the bottle of beer Castiel has open. “I thought you couldn’t drink the stuff. Aura of sin or whatever.”

Castiel grimaces and stares at the beer bottle as though just reminded. “I think it’s useful to test my own limits sometimes,” he says. “It’s getting easier to swallow.”

“Not what most people say,” Dean says, and though Castiel shoots him a puzzled look, he doesn’t bother explaining. For all he knows, angels don’t get that dry-throat feeling once enough alcohol has entered their system. God knows three beers in, Castiel isn’t even starting to act drunk. For a guy who’s never imbibed before, that’s practically Olympian.

Then again, he _is_ an angel.

  
  


“How are you different from us?” he asks lazily, his fingers traveling over the short gap between them to alight on Castiel’s thigh. He’s relaxed, slumping against the side of the bed, and Castiel sits erect just next to him on the floor. The alcohol has all migrated down from the dresser, where they’d laid it out so neatly just a few hours before. Now it’s a jumble of glass in a loose semicircle around them, like the alcoholic firing squad, and Dean and Castiel are side by side against the bed, separated only by a few pizza boxes, penned in.

“How are we what?”

Dean waves his other hand dismissively “Like, I know you have divine power and whatever, but what kind of power? What can you do that humans can’t? What makes you so angelic?”

Castiel squints. “What can we do?”

“You sound like the Grand Canyon. Stop echoing and answer me.” That might have sounded a little pissy. Dean knows he can get a little pissy when drunk.

“I’m sorry, it’s just… we don’t think of it in those terms.” Castiel’s frown, when he’s thinking hard, is too fucking cute for Dean to stand. He leans over and gives Castiel a long kiss, one that doesn’t end until he feels some of the tension drain out of Cas’s body.  And now he can see some signs of tipsiness in the slow move of Castiel’s lips — or maybe it’s just the aftermath of the kiss. Dean isn’t sure which he’d prefer it to be.

“Well,” he prods, “how do you think of it?”

Castiel’s eyes meet his. “We think of the things _you_ can do that _we_ can’t.”

Now that takes some more alcohol to wrap his head around. Dean goes for the hard stuff. He’s been pussyfooting around with beers too long. “Explain that,” he says, twisting off the top and pouring a bit of whiskey into the beer bottle he emptied a half-hour ago.

“We came to Earth when we were foretold to,” Castiel says. “We’ve moved as the prophecies dictate. We take husbands because it is our mission. Whereas you…” He lays his hand on Dean’s. “You are born and your choices are unrestricted. Your future is what you create it to be.”

The words unsettle Dean’s stomach. He frowns. “That is so much crap, I don’t know where to start.”

“How so?”

“How—” Dean coughs, not because the whiskey’s too strong but because his laugh shorts out his swallow and leaves him sputtering. “What’s stopping you from making the same choices? Do you get struck down by lightning by the Big Guy if you change your mind?”

Castiel looks uncomfortable. His hand twitches on Dean’s. “I… I would not begin to know how. And yes, there would be reprisals…”

“Screw reprisals,” Dean says. “Cas, you’ve already done it. You’ve already defied them.”

And now Cas has gone from uncomfortable to horrified. Dean needs another swig of whiskey. “Dude,” he says, voice liquor-raw. “What?”

“How?” Castiel can barely whisper. “How have I defied them?”

It’s like he’s terrified someone will suddenly appear in his room to deliver a beatdown. Dean worries a sec. He still doesn’t know just what angels can and can’t do. Maybe they’re watching him now. Maybe Castiel is justified in his fear.

But that doesn’t make sense. They’ve talked too much, shared too much that Uriel and his fellow jackasses would disapprove of. If punishment were coming, it would have come already. Which means Castiel is just afraid of being a disappointment.

Dean knows how that feels.

“You just said it,” he says. “You take husbands because of the mission. Cas, why did you marry me?”

Castiel’s answer is reflex by now. “Because I lo— _oh_.” He stares down at their joined hands a moment, digesting the concept.

A grin dawns on Dean’s face. “Well?” he says softly. “How does free will feel?”  
  
“I…” Castiel’s eyes fly to his, linger there. “I think I would like another drink now.”  
  
Dean laughs. He hands Cas the whiskey. “It’ll burn going down,” he warns, “so just have a little.” Cas takes a minute sip, swallows hard, and blinks several times before casting his eyes back to Dean.  
  
“Warm,” he says.  
  
“Yup.”  
  
Castiel squeezes his hand. “So are you.”  
  
 _Oh, you have no idea,_ Dean thinks. He can’t even look at Cas now without smiling. The melting inside him, the feeling like his heart is going to burst — that’s not just the liquor talking and he knows it. He ought to watch his tongue tonight. He might say something that shouldn’t get said. Not yet.  
  
He silences it by leaning over and kissing Castiel again, slow and soft, licking at his bottom lip between purses of their mouths against each other. The slick, wet sounds of their kissing fill the air, and Dean’s heart sets up a counter-rhythm, a percussive symphony of warmth and want ringing in his ears. Cas sets down the bottle and loops his hands around Dean’s neck, pulling him close. They slide together onto the floor, Dean lying on Cas, one hand at his waist, the other tangled in his hair. The liquor bottles jangle nervously. They’re forgotten.

“Warm,” Castiel mumbles into Dean’s mouth.

Dean props himself up on his elbows, looks down at him. God, Cas looks so damn good like this, all kiss-flushed and rumpled. “Hmm?”

“That’s how free will feels,” Castiel says. “Like whiskey going down. It burns, but… it’s warm on the inside.”

Dean doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything so profound in his life. Cas is a miracle.

The words he shouldn’t say are so close to his tongue right now.

“You need to drink more,” Cas says.

Dean stares down at him. “What?”

“You’re not drunk enough for the sacrament to be valid. More.”

That’s right, this is not just a for-fun pizza-and-liquor night. This is a sacrament. The tug of obligation is almost enough to sandbag Dean’s aspirations. But obligation can’t hold a candle to the delicious, fiery feeling in his gut right now, or the sprawl of Castiel’s limbs beneath him. 

“I will,” he says, “later. But you know, once I get too hammered, certain things don’t work right.” He pushes his hips down into Castiel’s, gives him a non-verbal clue.

“Oh.” Castiel smiles. “Well, I guess the drinking can wait a while longer.”

“I thought you might say that,” Dean says, and leans down to kiss him again.


	25. Part Twenty-Three and a Half

_Really hope the bottles don’t tip over._

That’s Dean’s last coherent thought. Of course, given Cas’s dubious angel powers, maybe he can just un-spill that much precious booze, not that Dean’s willing to risk it. He angles his body against the bed, pushing Cas down into the floor, trying to maximize the distance between his current and future vices.

Cas said he needed to drink more, and Dean will. He’s not anti-booze. But right now, he’s much more pro-sex.

 

Cas is melting like butter beneath him, his lips opening beneath Dean’s. It’s as pliant as Dean can ever remember him being, his body radiating up a lazy heat as he gives soft, encouraging moans that send gentle vibrations down Dean’s spine. Even Cas’s legs are parting, as though inviting Dean in, and _God,_ Dean would love to take him up on that silent offer.

But he can’t. It’s not part of the rules, Dean can’t ever have him like that, and it just about kills him to remember it. He winces, trying to tamp down on the images running through his head.

_…Castiel on his back, legs kicked up in the air, and from between them his face tortured with want, his lips whispering entreaties. Castiel with his face pressed into the pillows, making choked sounds there as Dean drives into him, fills him up. Castiel above him, riding Dean, his hips pumping as a sheen of sweat covers his body…_

“Dean.” Castiel is looking up at him, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

Dean forces the frustration from his face. “Nothing,” he says, grinning. He kisses a soft trail down Cas’s neck and whispers into his ear, “We just need to be on that bed now.”

Castiel’s worry fades into a boyish grin. “I agree.”

They get to their feet, very nearly standing on a couple of unfinished pizzas as they do, and grinning at each other as they’re forced to do an awkward dance around them. Dean hops onto the bed first, rolling onto his back and stretching out. Castiel sits and kicks his shoes off so they tumble over the footboard before turning over and falling on top of Dean with a rain of perfect, hungry kisses.

The alcohol’s making Dean, if not giggly, at least a bit silly. He slides his fingers under Castiel’s shirt, tries to tease a laugh out of him, but Castiel is all action. He’s pulling Dean’s shirt up and off, sitting up to wrench it finally from Dean’s shoulders like it’s an abomination, then falling back down to cover Dean’s chest and stomach with kisses and almost-bruising fingers. Dean’s laughter fades to moans and twitching, and he tries in vain to get Castiel’s attention. “Cas— _nngh_ — hey, hey, Cas, I— oh, _God—”_ The biggest response he gets is a noncommittal growl as Castiel works his way down Dean’s stomach toward the buckle of his belt, almost as if he’s gonna—

—but can he?

“Cas, wait,” Dean says, scrambling up to sit, suddenly worried. He reaches out to card his hands through Cas’s hair, and Cas looks up at him, brow furrowed and eyes wide with want and confusion. “Dude, if you’re not allowed to take it, are you… are you allowed to do _that_?”

Castiel laughs. Out and laughs. He’s doing that more and more lately, Dean thinks dizzily, and then Cas’s hands are skimming over his pants and Dean’s thinking short-circuits entirely. He tips his head back, groaning, and his fingers fall slack on Cas’s hair, then slide down to undo his belt. Screw angelic rules, screw everything, if Cas is willing to put his mouth on Dean’s dick, that’s exactly where Dean wants it.

Wants it, but Cas is teasing, breathing on him, even when Dean pulls himself out and free, raises his hips to ease his pants down over his thighs…

Wants it so bad he hitches his hips upward, sinks down onto his elbows and groans with the force of it, and still only Castiel’s tongue, a tiny lick of flame, easing over the smooth skin of his cockhead for less than a moment before withdrawing again…

Wants it, god _damn_ it…

And he feels his body wrench and hears himself make an animal noise before it even registers in his mind that Cas’s mouth is finally around him, hot and insanely wet, tongue licking beneath the ridge as his lips suck in maddening pulses. “Cas, Cas, oh _God_ ,” he hears himself mutter, sinking his fingers into Cas’s hair again and trying hard not to pull. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

Cas laughs again, the bastard, this time the vibrations pulsing _into_ Dean’s cock, and as Castiel’s lips travel down and the heat of his mouth takes in more and more of Dean’s flesh the ache expands until it’s all Dean can feel. God, he doesn’t remember it ever being this good, this dizzying. He’s being spun like a top, disoriented and breathless. Hairs are standing up all along his arms and legs. His stomach’s churning with heat. And throughout it Cas, the presence and sheer determination of him, so constant and so intense in the soft sucks of his mouth and wicked tricks of his tongue, turning Dean inside out and taking the gravity out of his world.

“ _God,_ ” he murmurs again, and maybe Castiel shudders a little at the blasphemy. Or maybe it’s a shudder of excitement, Dean’s own or Cas’s, because the way they’re joined right now — Dean’s legs hooked over Castiel’s shoulders, Castiel holding up his hips with hands cupped along the cusp between his ass and his thighs, mouth wrapped around him, wet sounds rising up as he works eagerly between Dean’s legs — is far dirtier and more primal than anything they’ve done before. Even when Cas has fucked him, it’s been loving, almost reverent. This is just _filthy_.

He can’t keep his damn mouth shut. “Cas, _jeez_ ,” he babbles, breathy, barely able to suck in enough oxygen before another syllable finds its way between his lips. “Your fucking mouth. God.” Each word seems to pull Cas deeper onto him, drive Cas further into the crux between his legs, and he’s growling with intent that’s just plain evil, fingers bruising at the base of Dean’s ass, and Dean’s _flying_ on the huge buoyant sensation that’s making his hips crest upward again and again and

“Fuck!” A profanity shouted in the middle of an angel’s lair, doesn’t matter, because Dean’s going to pieces, shuddering uncontrollably as Cas’s hungry mouth milks him through wave after wave of bliss and release. Dean knows he’s tensing, seizing up, convulsing hard, and he can’t make his body relax, can only ride it, let the sensation escape through hoarse shouts and frantic spasms. “ _Fuck,”_ he hears himself say, _“God,_ ” and “ _C_ as, _“_ and “ _geez,”_ the pitches of the words easing down the scale, until he’s relaxed enough to curl forward and pull Castiel’s mouth off of him.

And holy Christ, Castiel’s face is a profanity unto itself.

His lips are wet, a white fleck or two proof of sin at the edges of his mouth, and his eyes are blazing with purpose and delight. It’s the most intensely lustful Dean’s ever seen him, and he wishes he’d pulled Cas off earlier, ravished that mouth and gotten the feel of Castiel inside him, fucking him with that much savagery. It’s almost demonic, the way he looks right now, the corners of his mouth turning up like he’s ready to just keep going and devour Dean through and through.

Dean takes a deep breath. “What did I do to deserve that?” he wonders aloud.

Castiel licks his lips. “Time will tell,” he says, and he’s kissing the question off Dean’s lips before it has time to form.


	26. Part Twenty-Four

The sex is over and done with, and they’ve gone back to drinking. It’s now very lazy, very naked drinking, with ridiculous laughter and impromptu impressions of various angels along with bites of pizza and gratuitous swigs of liquor. Dean’s feeling no pain, and though he’s too liquored up to feel much in the way of pleasure either, he’s still delighting in taking long, soft, tingly kisses from Castiel’s mouth.

And he’s talking, too — talking far more than he should, perhaps, talking about women and men he’s lusted after, old flames that could ignite jealousy in a lesser angel. But this is Cas, Dean’s husband, and he trusts him to the end of the world. So things just keep on slipping out, and Cas might even be encouraging them, with gentle questions that draw out more and more stories from further and further back in Dean’s memories.

He’s halfway into a story about his childhood, about trying to put Sam in a Radio Flyer wagon and run away from their parents because of some dinner neither of them wanted to eat, when Dean cocks his head and cuts himself off.

“You know what?” he says. “I just remembered something else.”

 

”From your childhood?”

“No. From—” Dean looks up at him with big eyes and a smile that’s that peculiar shade of drunkenness that means  _I’m amazed at my own ability to even think right now!_ “From today.”

He’s terribly surprised, but Castiel doesn’t seem to be. “Oh?”

“Yeah. I gotta confession to make,” Dean slurs. His tongue is hanging awful heavy in his mouth now — is it fuzzy? Or just heavy? He’s not sure. “Went out while you were gone today. Went jogging.”

“You did?” Mild surprise, interest from Castiel.

“Yeah. Went by the highway. Thought about— thought about goin’ home, you know, running away. I’d come back, though.” Dean wraps his hands around Castiel’s waist. “Gotta come back to you, no matter what. I know. But still.”

Castiel laughs. “Thank you, Dean. I appreciate that.”

“Wish I knew what was going on with them,” Dean says. “Sammy. I worry about Sammy.”

“You’re a good brother,” Castiel says, kissing his shoulder. “I assure you, he is in good hands.”

“You say that, but you don’t know it.” Dean scowls at him. “How’m I supposed to know if I don’t talk to him?”

Now worry appears in Castiel’s face. “Dean. You must have faith.”

“You’re the angel. _You_ can have faith. Me, I need proof.” Dean’s anger is growing. “I needed proof, Cas.”

“Dean.” Castiel’s hands drop from Dean’s shoulders. He sits up straight, alarmed. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.” The twinge of pain that ghosts across Castiel’s expression says he can feel the lie. “I called, OK? I phoned home. Like E.T.”

Dean grins, but the expression doesn’t last. It slips off Dean’s face, replaced by horror — horror that fades into terror, because the horror on Castiel’s own face is complete. The angel is ashen. He can barely whisper the words. “You did what?”

“I—” Dean can’t feel his fingers, can’t move. “I just called. Wrong number, though. Some lady picked up—” But Castiel’s continuing to stare, open-mouthed, and Dean’s stomach churns. “I— It wasn’t a wrong number, was it?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel says, but the possibility is there, and even through his drunkenness Dean knows it. It could have been. If Dean called Sam, he would get a stranger on the line. His brother, his family, is being kept from him.

He sits up, as straight as he can, but one of Castiel’s hands comes down to brace his shoulder and abruptly a fever washes through him. He wavers, the room dipping unpredictably as though it’s getting smaller and larger at once, and he bites back a flood of bile.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Castiel says, darkness in his voice.

It’s like ink is spreading through his vision, black blotches curling up under his eyelashes and making him blink furiously. “Cas— I feel sick—”

Castiel’s other hand comes up on his arm, clutching there, and Dean thinks his muscles are rebelling. They’re seizing up, he’s tensing, and everything is swimming. “Cas, stop it, what are you doing? Stop—”

“Dean.” It’s like a stranger’s voice. It’s dark and frightening and Dean wants it to stop, wants the sick, warped feeling to stop. He cries out, incoherent, and the sound of his voice only sets his stomach churning again. He gags, expecting to vomit, but nothing comes out.

_Oh god, I’m gonna choke on my own puke and die,_ he thinks. _I can’t breathe, I’m gonna die._

“You must not ever do that again.” Castiel’s voice itself is sickening now. It’s like doom, vibrating through him. “Do you understand me, Dean?”

_Make it stop,_ Dean keeps thinking, _just make it stop._ “I— I get it— Cas, stop—”

“Repent.”

The word breaks over him like a wave, and Dean’s near tears, gasping, his arms flailing, reaching out for Castiel and saying over and over, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Cas, I’m sorry—”

Then the heat’s taken him over and he blacks out entirely.

  
When he comes to, pleasant coolness is suffusing his body. He’s under the spray of the shower, tile sweating with condensation as it rises up around him, and water is running along his body. Rivulets stream across his muscles, sink down into his skin, and every inch of him is singing with the relief of it.  
  
His head is still fuzzy, and it takes him a long moment to wipe the excess water from his eyes, longer still before he can hear the soft, irregular sound of Castiel breathing near him. Dean sits up, fighting a wave of vertigo as the world rights itself around him, and leans against the edge of the tub, soaking up porcelain coolness into his flushed limbs. The fever is still there, but the sense of sickness is gone. The desperation has disappeared. His head is clear.  
  
“Cas?” he says quietly, afraid to ask what’s happened.  
  
No answer, but a shuddering noise. Castiel’s back is to him. Dean reaches out and spreads his fingers across the shaking line of his shoulder.  
  
The memory hits him in a wave. At once, the betrayal is there again, the feeling of being so horribly sick and having Castiel speak to him in that hard, unforgiving voice. Another wave of nausea, this time just from the recollection, overwhelms him. He pulls his hand away.  
  
Castiel stiffens at the loss of contact. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry, Dean. I didn’t want to.”  
  
“Cas—” Dean cuts himself off and looks up at the showerhead. The water sprinkles over him, cold and constant, and he shivers at the realization. “’ _He will cleanse him of his transgressions._ ’ That was— that was all the sacrament, wasn’t it?”  
  
“Yes.” Castiel still won’t look at him. “It was. I’m sorry I had to put you through that. I’m so—”  
  
His voice comes to a choking stop. For the first time it occurs to Dean why Castiel’s shaking so hard. He reaches out and tugs him closer.  
  
He’s right. Castiel relents and turns, and his eyes are damp with tears.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.  
  
Even with the fever, Dean’s chilled to the bone now. “It’s— it’s OK,” he whispers, even though he’s still not sure if it is. “It’s OK, Cas, I said we’d do this together, and that’s what we’re doing. I’m all right.” He climbs out of the tub and crouches next to Castiel on the bathroom floor, taking him in very cold, very wet arms. Castiel doesn’t seem to mind. His own arms, warm as blood and iron-strong, come up to clasp around Dean’s back, and he buries his head in Dean’s shoulder.  
  
“Cas.” His voice echoes strangely, even amid the shower’s hiss and Castiel’s soft breaths. “Is it for real? Am I not allowed to even talk to my family?”  
  
Silence lingers for a moment.  
  
“I’m sorry, Dean.”


	27. Part Twenty-Five

~~_He shall feed him with the food from his table,_ ~~  
~~_and he shall drink the nectar from his lips._ ~~  
~~_He shall guide him to righteousness_ ~~  
~~_and cleanse him of his transgressions._ ~~  
_He shall give him wings to fly…_

  
“Hey, Cas?” Dean says from in front of the refrigerator. “Do we actually have to do all the sacraments?”

“What’s that?” Castiel is in the other room, reading. He pokes his head in the doorway.

Dean turns to him, expression contorted. “Can’t we do twelve out of thirteen or something? Does it have to be every single one?”

Castiel frowns, and his face darkens as he ponders the implication of the question. Straightening up and striding into the kitchen, he shakes his head slowly. “We can’t,” he says. “Sacraments are holy rituals. They aren’t subject to shortcuts.”

Since the last sacrament, Dean’s been a little more careful. He doesn’t want to set Cas off again, doesn’t want to see that dark look on his face. As much as he’s worried about the fact he’s no longer allowed to see his family (or even bring them up in conversation), he knows Castiel takes no pleasure in keeping Dean so constricted. They’re together in this strange prison the angels have constructed for them, and the only way out is to follow it through until the end.

Still, Dean had kind of been hoping for an out. Because the next one on the list scares the bejesus out of him.

  


“Is it actual… flying?” he asks Castiel after dinner that night. It’s a warm night, and they’re on the porch by the pool with beers forgotten to the side as their arms loosely drape around each other. “Because if this is one of those where it’s actually a metaphor for something, that would be a good thing.”

Castiel kisses his temple, and Dean can feel the soft curve of his lips turning up. “Why would that be a good thing?”

Dean groans. He really doesn’t like the idea that Cas is enjoying watching him squirm. “Do I have to say it?”

“Not if you don’t want to.” Castiel pauses. “If you don’t trust me—”

“Shut up, you know I do.” Dean shoves his shoulder into Castiel’s chest in a teasing nudge. “It’s just… it makes me nervous.”

“Flying makes you nervous?”

“Yeah. …Nervous.”

Castiel pulls back and stares at him. “You’re scared of flying.” His brow is doing that overly serious, pinched-in-the-middle thing.

“I’m not scared!” Dean blusters. “I’m just… like I said. Nervous.” He tries to scowl and can feel his eyebrows lifting in the middle where he wants them to furrow. He probably looks like a kid trying not to cry.  
  
Castiel fights down the wickedness in his smile. He cups Dean’s face in shi hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, “but yes, this time the flight is literal.”  
  
Dean slumps forward, chin leaning heavily on Castiel’s hands. “Figured as much. So when’s our plane leaving?”  
  
Castiel blinks. “Our what?”

“Our plane. This is another one of those facing-your-fears things, right? Let’s just get it over with.”

“So you _are_ afraid.”

“Shut up.” Dean slumps down further.

“Dean.” Castiel’s smile is now almost rueful. “The flight is literal. So are the wings.”

And Dean sits straight up. “ _What_!?”

* * *

Dean’s never seen anything like it. No, maybe once a long time, he did — a moment when he had first taken the hand of his new husband, and something golden had seemed to move through him. There, for a moment, Castiel had truly looked like something more than human, and if Dean closes his eyes and thinks hard, he thinks he remembers the shadow of bright, wide wings.

But not like this. Not solid and made of countless charcoal-colored feathers, as lush and thick as a raven’s back, not so clearly arcing through the air and casting wide shadows on the ground. Dean’s eyes can’t open wide enough to take in the sight of them and believe what he’s seeing.

Castiel is an angel. A real angel, the kind in the storybooks. The kind that has wings.

It feels like breaking news.

“Are you ready?” Castiel asks, and Dean thinks he is, because he really wants to touch those wings, find out if Castiel can feel it when he does, maybe see Castiel wince a little with the tenderness of Dean’s touch. Maybe there are sexy things you can do with wings like that, and Dean wants them spread out over their big white bed, wants to run his fingers into them —

Castiel moves forward and puts his arms around Dean’s shoulders, sliding behind him, and the wings fold over Dean’s body like a blanket. One of Castiel’s arms drops to his waist, cinching there, and now Dean’s glowing like the filament in a lightbulb, full of heat and the everywhereness of Castiel, keeping him warm and safe and covered and loved in the dimming night. He takes in a breath, moans, and lets his head loll back onto Castiel’s shoulder.

Then he notices his feet are leaving the ground.

The wings beat hurricanes of wind all around him, and he shudders. Behind him, Castiel’s still warm and constant, but Dean whimpers, struggles, freaks the hell out. “Holy— crap— wait, not— not _ready,_ ” he protests, shoulders twitching and hands clenching into fists, shuddering in Castiel’s firm grasp and searching blindly, his eyes shut tight, for the solid ground he knows is nowhere to be found.

The cold settles from a frigid blast to an everpresent tingle on his skin, and Dean dares to open his eyes. There’s nothing in front of him — a whole lot of deep blue nothing — and he casts his gaze down, just so that he’s seeing something besides an endless sky.

“Oh, God.” The words fight with a gulp of air he desperately needs so he doesn’t pass out. “Oh, God, is that our house?”

It’s like a Tinkertoy, the size of his foot, and the pool they’d been standing beside is a blue rectangle he can cover entirely with his thumb if he angles it out in just the right way. The green lawns and other big house spread out around it like the scattered contents of a toy box, and Dean thinks for a moment that’s all it is, until a very real car comes along, headlights on, and illuminates the road as it goes.

He swallows hard. Castiel’s wings are fluttering around him, keeping them drifting on air as easily as the surface of an ocean, and his hair is being blown back on his forehead and tousled into a mess. “It’s so small,” he says. He  kind of wants to cry, but he’s not sure it’s from fear.

And then they’re rising again, an updraft catching their bodies, and Castiel’s wings beat in concert with it. Another moment and the whole block is the size the house was; the headlights from the car are no longer visible and everything’s turning to ants. Dean’s heartbeat thrums mightily in his throat. “Hey, hey, wasn’t that high enough?” he complains, turning his head to look at Castiel. Castiel has an expression on his face like freaking Superman, stoic and unmovable, and his wings keep powering them upward.

“That’s plenty, that’s great, I’m over my fear now, dude. Really, we can land—”

He makes the mistake of looking down then. Jesus, his sneaker’s untied. “Dude. Cas. My shoe. What if my shoe falls off and hits someone at twenty thousand miles an ho—”

Castiel kisses him.

His face dips down and his lips claim Dean’s before Dean realizes what’s happening — he gasps, eyes wide open, but he’s too aware of where he is to struggle. Not that there’s any reason he’d want to struggle, not now when Castiel’s kiss is warming every surface that had been cold a moment ago. He’s closing his eyes, daring to wrap his arms around Castiel’s shoulders above where the wings are flapping, and slowly letting himself just be here, wherever that may be, in Castiel’s arms and buoyed by Castiel’s kiss. The world is turning around him, and he’s with Cas, and it’s all, all good.

Except…

The world literally _is_ turning around him, or rather, Castiel’s turning around him. They’re not side by side anymore, Castiel’s on _top_ of him, which is nice when there’s a bed under him but when there’s _nothing_ under him? Not so freaking much. Dean gasps, clutches Castiel’s shoulders, tries to situate himself upright but only manages to find himself with head tipped back, so he can see the ground far above him when his eyes rolling up into his head.  His legs want to lock around Castiel’s, but every time he moves the beat of Castiel’s wings rebuffs them and they end up floundering in midair.

All this and Castiel’s gone and started kissing his neck, like some sort of amorous Latin lover, and Dean’s just hanging there from Castiel’s embrace like a rag doll!

“Cas, Cas, pull up,” he cries out. “Pull up, mayday, mayday. Come _on!_ ”

“I love you, Dean.” Words mumbled into his neck. Nice and warm and they make him feel good and all, but—

“Yeah, yeah, Cas, that’s very nice, straighten out already… come on, just for a minute…”

“I love you,” Castiel says, “and I believe in you. Never forget that, Dean.”

If Dean has his way he’ll forget this whole horrible, traumatic experience. “Yeah, ok, I never will, Cas, now—- a— _ahhh_!”

The words melt together into a panicked scream. Dean realizes after an ear-splitting instant that it’s his own.

Castiel has let go.

He’s falling.


	28. Part Twenty-Six

The air rushes by him shocked and cold. Clouds spray wetness onto his body, and he shudders and shivers and freezes by turns. He can’t tell if he’s shaking from fear or cold or loneliness.

Castiel has dropped him, and he’s falling.

To his death, he’s falling to his death, what the hell is going on (as the trees go from dots to circles of green, as the houses go from tiny smudges of brown to building blocks beneath his terrified eyes), how could this have happened, what happened to Castiel giving him wings to fly, what happened to Castiel believing in him, what happened to the love and protection and all the promises he was supposed to count on when these sacraments got too much to bear —

Calm down, he tells himself, calm down, Dean, but how can he calm himself at 9.8 meters per second per second (where does that thought come from, something in his GED), with nothing to break his fall, nothing to stop him from slamming down into the earth so hard he falls through it, no wings, no words, no arms to hold him up?

And Castiel’s last words before he let go, _I love you and I believe in you. Never forget that, Dean._

He won’t be here to remember _anything_ in a moment — and Castiel believes in him? What does he believe he can do?

  
  


Dean closes his eyes. He doesn’t know if he’s falling faster than the thoughts are coming, but he thinks he should be dead by now, either frozen to death or shredded by the wind and force of falling, or the roof of the house should be hitting him and he should feel the rip of pain through his whole body before it disintegrates and he’s gone —

Should be feeling it, but he’s not, why?

Is it just that he’s thinking faster than light?

Or maybe he’s already dead. Maybe this is all hallucination —

No. He’s alive. He’s definitely alive. He thinks.

He _believes_ he’s still alive.

That’s a belief, that’s something. He can start there. Every moment he keeps believing, he’s still alive…

…does he believe in Castiel, too? Does he really believe Castiel would let him die?

_No chance, not a chance. If I get close enough to the ground he’ll catch me, he’ll save me. He will._

The words come to his mind faster than light. Maybe he believes it because he needs to, but he’s sure he’ll keep believing it until the moment he’s betrayed. Castiel hasn’t betrayed him, not yet. He can’t have.

_Good. Good. Now try to believe you won’t die._

Castiel’s voice?

No. It’s different. It’s something unfamiliar, a whisper. No tenor or personality to it, just a voice.

Dean answers it in his head. _OK. I won’t die. How the hell will I not die?_

_I’ll help you. Will you let me help you? Please say yes._

Something in the question makes Dean hesitate. _What does that mean, say yes?_ he fires back.  _What am I saying yes to?_

_Dean Winchester. Please._

Dean ignores it. He doesn’t need to say yes to anyone but Cas, Cas will save him, Dean still believes in that…

_Castiel can’t save you, not in the end, I’m the only one who can…_

“Now that,” Dean says, aloud, “that I don’t believe.”

And aloud his words take time, aloud life returns to its usual pace and Dean’s eyes open and he’s still falling to his death —

_Then I will give you something to believe in._

—and he’s not falling.

Not anymore. He’s floating, He’s cushioned, something great and wide and soft is above him, part of him—

He doesn’t. He can’t…

It’s not quite moving his back muscles, or his shoulders, but it’s kind of like that, and when he inhales everything slows down. The air has changed around him — where it was empty and shapeless, it now tangles around him like a series of ropes, something he can hang and swing from if he moves just right. It’s bizarre and new, and it feels completely natural.

He tries — ironically enough — to dive down, until the house is coming up big and bricklike, and he can see his reflection as he soars over the pool.

It’s true. He has wings.

The shout that rips from his mouth surprises him, and he loses his grip on the air and hurtles toward the pool. A flap, a stretch and he’s soaring upward again, his body defying gravity as a sheen of sweat starts to build on his shoulders. It’s hard work, using them, but nothing worse than a good workout, and when he catches an updraft he’s able to just stretch out and soar until he looks down and everything’s been reduced to building-block size again.

“Holy _crap_ ,” he shouts to the air. A passing crow caws back at him in annoyance. Dean gives it the finger. Or, more accurately, flips it the bird.

Flying was never like this, not even in his dreams. He used to dream about flying, but his wings were unwieldy, and they flipped inside out like a bad umbrella, making him spiral out of control and crash into buildings with an awful, jarring awakening where he bolted forward in bed sweating and terrified. This is different. This is easy as breathing, as heart-pounding as sex — and like both, he wants to share it with Cas.

“Cas!” he calls upward, barreling up through the clouds and searching the sky. Is that speck him? Has he gone up diagonally and now he’s over a completely different patch of ground? With the wind and the thrill of it, he’s lost his bearings. Where’s Cas? He needs him, needs to share this excitement with the one man who’s given him more than he ever thought he deserved. His shouts call, excited, into the sky, but there’s nothing for them to echo off, and they fade unanswered.

Dean’s face falls. He wanted to soar with Cas, feel the tips of their wings brush side by side, travel over the horizon with him and never stop until dawn. But up here, being alone is more terrifying than it ever was on solid ground. At least there was something touchable around him then — now he’s surrounded by space, by the lingering condensation from wet clouds perhaps, but nothing more tangible than that. 

He misses the ground. He misses warmth. The sky is endless, but he needs an end.

_I told you, Castiel can’t give you everything._

A draft cuts into his body and he shivers.

_You may be his now, Dean Winchester, but someday you’ll be mine._

“No.” Dean whispers, then shouts into the empty air. “No! I don’t know who the hell you are, but you can go to hell for all I care. I’m his. Nobody else’s, wings or no wings.”

_Then you would fall to your death protecting that?_

“I don’t need to protect it. Alive or dead, it’s true. You can’t change that, nobody can.”

_You love him that much?_

Dean stops. He hasn’t… but the sky is empty and the voice is like hot needles going through his brain every time it speaks.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I do.”

The answer resounds achingly in his chest. He’s said it. Not in so many words, but…

_Then die for him._

No wings where there were wings. The wind tearing at his skin again. And Dean falling, the ground coming up beneath him, the panic rising…

No, there’s no panic this time. There’s fear, but not panic. He’s already survived this once. In the place of the panic comes anger.

_And this is how you think you’re gonna win me over?_ he thinks. _By letting me fall to my death? Screw you. Cas will save me. No, screw that, I’ll save myself._

He keeps his eyes open and stretches out his body, diving headfirst and unafraid toward the ground. The buildings grow in side, the trees from dots to green circles, the roads from thin lines to long, curling snakes beneath him.

He believes he’ll survive.

(Cars like beetles before his eyes, growing until they’re the size of small animals — he plunges past a cell tower, and hears the metal groan as his passing leaves behind a wake of churning air—)

He’ll survive.

(The ground feet away, the first driver looking up, his body casting a shadow in the ambient lights—)

And he loves Cas.

The wings unfurl in a mass of feathers, and Dean realizes from the shadow they cast that they’re not dark, like Cas’s: they’re golden, the color of his hair but with a glossier sheen that catches the streetlights.

Car horns honk and tires screech as he rights himself and plummets down the highway. He gains altitude, banking up through the air and skimming the treetops, barely clearing a set of power lines. He’s on his way back home now, back to solid ground, and as his street, his house come into view he sees Cas standing at the crest of the roof, arms and wings outspread, welcoming him.

Dean extends his own arms and topples them both off the roof as their bodies collide. They tumble down, wings flapping crazily, and with a burst of feathers they crash into the pool. Water’s everywhere, and even submerged Dean’s laughing. Castiel’s wings and his own make crazy black-gold clouds and shadows around them, filling the water. Cas beams at him, and Dean’s mouth finds his as he runs out of oxygen and kicks them both to the surface.

“Cas,” he murmurs when he can find breath. “Cas, oh, my God.”

“You did it,” Castiel says. “I knew it, Dean, I knew— but I worried. I was so worried…”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry. You’re here. You’re— you’re beautiful. Dean, your wings—”

Dean laughs. “Tell me they won’t last. I really don’t wanna have to cut holes in all my shirts. Cas, I—”

He takes a breath. There’s so much he could say. How he feels, what he’s learned, how terrified he was and how a strange voice came to him in the sky—

“What?” Castiel’s eyes burn bright with concern.

Dean can’t say it. He can’t bring it up. That voice had tried to tear them apart, and Dean doesn’t want it to even exist. Maybe he imagined it all. Maybe, if he doesn’t say a word, he can pretend it never happened.

He sighs. “Nothing. Nothing. Just… hi.”

Castiel mouths along his jaw. “Hello, Dean,” he murmurs, and licks at his throat, and Dean gratefully gives up any thought of voices, or fear, or anything but Castiel’s body next to his.

Which is all he really needs, anyway.


	29. Part Twenty-Six and a Half

It’s such a weird sensation, to have wings. It reminds Dean of a story he heard once about a guy who was born blind and couldn’t imagine what sight was like. Then there was a new laser therapy that gave him sight, and he didn’t know how to process all the new input. It’s the same thing — he feels in places he doesn’t know how to feel, he exists in the area that used to just be empty space at his back. He has grown to encompass more of the world.

And more of Dean means more discomfort as Castiel helps him out of the pool into which he made his crash landing. His whole body feels cold just because those huge parts of him are so waterlogged, and he shudders, huddling his arms over his chest and trying to warm up under the towel Castiel drapes around his shoulders. But the warmth is misplaced, his wings still feel half-frozen, and he has to finally say, “the w-wings, Cas… the wings…” and shudder more before Castiel gets it and towels them down.

Castiel is industrious about it. He drags the towel along the grain of each wing in turn, and it feels like a good backscratch, warming and luxurious and just a little painful. When Castiel has wrung the water from them, he reaches out a hand to ruffle through them tenderly. Dean doesn’t expect the jolt of sensation that wracks his body, and he jumps.

“Are you all right?” Amusement in Castiel’s gaze

“Y-yeah.” Dean licks his lips and shakes his head. He has to laugh. “They’re sensitive.”

“Yes,” Castiel says meaningfully, “they are.”  


  


Dean raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really?” He reaches out, touches Castiel’s wing with one tentative hand, stroking along the cartilage that holds the feathers in place. Castiel gasps, hips snapping forward as he arches, and his eyes sink closed. “I guess so,” Dean says, deeply amused and more than a little turned on. It only takes one noise, one movement of those solid hips, to make him want to cast everything aside and drag Castiel to bed.

Out of curiosity, more than anything, he curls the tip of his own wing forward and runs it against the line of Castiel’s.

Heat rolls through him like an earthquake; he moans, then gasps, trying to catch his breath. God, that was unbelievable. It was like touching a raw wire, like dipping his hand in a pool of pure energy. Dean’s jolted and awake, staring at the point where they connected in amazement.

Castiel’s eyes are still closed, and he flutters his wings forward, seeking more of the same. Dean goes into his arms instead, kissing him deeply while keeping their wings separate. He stretches his own backward a bit for every unconscious reach of Castiel’s wingtips toward his own.

He can’t escape them, though, and as Castiel’s wings envelop him, sliding against his own, he fights for breath and pushes his groin against Castiel’s. They’re both hard now, and gasping. Dean relents, sliding his wings along Castiel’s in a rubbing, tantalizing massage that makes the two of them start grinding together like a pair of horny schoolkids.

“Oh, my God,” he whispers when he can catch his breath. “Holy shit, Cas, that feels so good.”

“Dean.” Castiel speaks the name like a plea.

“What do we do?” Dean asks. “Bed’s not big enough for them.”

“Here.” Castiel kisses him wetly, circles his hips against Dean’s. “Right here, no one can see. Come _on_.”

Castiel falls to the ground, rolling into the lawn that lies green and well-manicured near the pool. His wings angle upward, reaching for Dean as surely as his open arms. But Dean is touched by an ominous sort of awe, looking at Castiel lying there with his wings spread. It makes him think of what Castiel might look if he were ever taken from Dean. Serene, unbreathing, with the spread of his wings burned like a shadow into the ground.

Where does that image come from? Why does it appear now, of all times?

He fights it back. Now is for living and for enjoying this new part of him. He gets to his knees, straddles Cas and runs his hands along the flat expanses of both his wings. Castiel shifts up under him, pressing feathers into his palms. His erection presses into Dean’s groin, hard and insistent, and he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Please,” he murmurs, and somehow it’s the most erotic blasphemy ever uttered.

Dean lowers himself down slowly so their bodies are pressed together. He works up Castiel’s shirt, still dripping wet from their crash landing, and their chests rub together. That simple contact is one of Dean’s favorite parts of lovemaking. Skin and muscle and beating hearts, all together. He wants that contact maintained as he lowers his wings to layer on top of Castiel’s.

It’s almost more than he can stand. Crying out, his voice overlapping Castiel’s, he holds Cas tight and tries to ride the tide of overwhelming sensation that is the two of them so connected. Every nerve ending in his wings is on fire. He doesn’t even remember negotiating his pants, doesn’t know if Castiel opens him with a word of magic, but he knows that he can’t think straight until he’s sliding onto Cas, leaning forward, riding him with his cock pressed up against Castiel’s stomach and their wings shifting together.

Castiel grips his thighs, pulls him up and down with ferocious muscles, and Dean’s all friction, all the movement of skin on skin and wings on wings. He’s making insane noises, growling and gasping by turns, being gloriously manhandled by Cas and loving it. “fuck,” he whispers into the bruising attack of Castiel’s mouth, “fuck, use me like that, Cas, so, so good.” Castiel’s hands tighten, and nails bite into Dean’s thighs. Dean’s jerked back and forth like a toy. He arches up, wings tangling and rolling against Castiel’s, and rides him hard.

The burn inside him is insane, agonizing, and tears come to his eyes as he fights for breath and  sanity. Only Castiel can do this to him, fill his whole body with heat from tips of goes to tips of fingers and now wings, and Castiel’s the only one he could show himself to in this way. The knowledge of why, the words he spoke out loud and the ones he thought to himself as an affirmation, are ringing in his skull now, and all he can think is how true they are as he gasps, rises up and slams himself down on the warm, hard ridge of Castiel’s cock and comes all at once with a cry that breaks in his throat —

_I love you. God, I love you so much._

Can Cas hear his thoughts? Can he feel the emotion in Dean’s eyes as his rhythm breaks and he beats his wings furiously, slamming them against Castiel’s with intense rushes of sensation that fade into oversensitivity? Dean doesn’t know, but he wonders, because Castiel answers him in throaty, guttural grunts as he comes: “yes… Dean… I love you… love… you _more_.”

Dean kisses his neck, groans, and crawls over him. “Nah,” he whispers, “you couldn’t possibly.”

Castiel’s eyes widen in surprise. Dean realizes what he’s said. Even though he hasn’t said the three words out loud to Cas yet, there’s no mistaking what he meant just then.  He buries his head in Castiel’s shoulder and breathes in slowly.

“Dean…” Castiel whispers, all awe.

“Don’t make me, yet,” Dean breathes. “Not sure I can. But you… you know.” He squeezes Castiel tight. That has to be enough. It _has_ to.

“No—” Castiel says. “Your wings…”

Dean looks over his shoulder. A shimmer of gold is hanging over him, but it’s insubstantial and fading. The sensation in his wings is dissipating too — he thought it was numbness, born of overstimulation, but now he’s realizing that when he tenses his shoulders, nothing beyond his shoulder blades responds. They’re disappearing. He’s losing them.

“Oh, thank God,” he says, fighting down the bitter taste of disappointment. Why the hell should he be disappointed? He didn’t want to live with the damn things forever. Still, they’d made the sex so good. Not to mention flying. He’ll never forget that feeling.

Castiel’s wings are fading, too, but at his behest; Castiel sits up and folds them in an instant before they disappear. Dean watches them go. “So, can you bring those out, like, anytime?” he asks.

“Yes,” Castiel answers. “Would you like me to bring them out more often?”

“They’re a nice twist. Once in a while.” Dean shivers. “Maybe we ought to go inside, now that we can fit through the door?”

He gets to his feet, reaches out and pulls Castiel up next to him. Together, they make their way through the house and to bed, but a dim sort of radiance seems to hang around Castiel the whole way, and Dean finds himself staring at it with puzzled ennui. Something about it has brought back Castiel’s angelhood to the forefront of his mind in a way it usually isn’t, and it’s saddening Dean for some reason he can’t tell.

_He’s an angel. No matter what you do, you are and will always be a human._

Dean stiffens. He sits up in bed and looks down at Castiel’s sleeping form. He’s reminded suddenly of the moment of fear he’d had earlier, when Castiel’s wings had been spread across the grass.

_Are you prepared for that? Are you prepared to age while he stays young? Are you prepared to see him someday die in battle? A war is coming, Dean Winchester, and you will not escape it. And without me, you will_ not _survive it._

“Who—” Dean starts. Castiel stirs in his sleep, and Dean presses his lips together. He doesn’t want Cas to know about this.  He thinks as loud as he can, instead. Who are you?

_You’ll learn. In time. When the sacraments have been completed._

_Prepare._


	30. Part Twenty-Seven

_~~He shall give him wings to fly,~~_  
 _and legs to stand upright upon the earth._  
 _He shall bind him in chains_  
 _And give to him angelic robes._  
 _ ~~He shall own his body,~~_  
 _and knock at the doors of his soul._  
 _He shall deliver him unto the company of the angels_  
 _And cast him into the pit of devils._  
 _And thus the One will rise_  
 _And bring the earthly paradise again._  
  
Nothing that happens from there on out can really surprise Dean. Now he knows what a sacrament entails — that it usually comes close to breaking him and then delivers him at the last minute — and he’s able to hold himself steady through the trials and wait for the twist to come.

He’s “delivered into the company of angels” at the next weekly conclave at Uriel’s icebox-shaped manor, and they treat him well, admire and examine him from every angle, and then retire into a conference where they whisper in the corner of the room, leaving Dean on display. Then he is “cast into the pit of devils,” and he still doesn’t know if they were demons or angels playing roles, but they bite at him with knowledge they shouldn’t have, tell him the story of his own life in a funhouse-mirror warping of the truth, and Dean holds tight to his belief that his marriage isn’t a ruse, that his family is fine, that he isn’t a coward and that Castiel truly cares for him. It’s disturbing, but less so than it’s been before, and when he makes it through, he feels a bit like it could have been a lot worse.

The one where he’s bound in chains is just plain fun. The angelic robes bit is actually fun too, and now Dean thinks he might have a fetish for silk.

Only two more left on the list, and that will bring the number to twelve. Dean counts and re-counts. What is he missing? Is the one about him “rising” the thirteenth sacrament? Or maybe there’s one he’s forgotten. Screw it. Cas will let him know one way or another. Doesn’t matter.

He’s gotten pretty cavalier about the whole thing, maybe, but it’s only because he’s more and more comfortable in this house. He’s come to think of it as home. And Castiel is a beacon of comfort and confidence when he feels his own flagging. He’s reliable, he’s predictable, he is always there to tell Dean that he’s safe and loved and believed in.

Until he isn’t.  
  


Dean comes home after an afternoon jog to find the first floor of the house abandoned. He’s taken to jogging in the afternoon, when the sky’s turned pink and the heat of the day has started to dissipate. It focuses him, builds his appetite for dinner (and Castiel has gotten adventurous in the kitchen, to mixed effect, so having an appetite helps) and helps calm the swirling of his mind.

Because days as a househusband, as relaxing and luxurious as they are, leave him a lot of room to wonder.

About what happens when the last three sacraments are completed. About what that third sacrament is. About what the voice he heard so long ago was, whether he was just losing his mind. He hasn’t heard it since, and he’s starting to want to believe it was only his own doubts found voice. But he remembers how real it sounded, how convinced he was that someone or something was speaking to him, and he feared it enough to keep quiet about it then. Now he fears he made it up, and that’s enough to keep it quiet now. But he still wonders, as day stretches into day, whether he’ll ever hear it again.

The adrenaline and endorphins of the run, and the stunning pink of the sky, erase the uncertainties from his mind, and he comes home feeling clear-headed and happy. A shower, then dinner, then a night with his husband next to him, talking or making love or just sitting side by side, reading, without a word to each other, but still undeniably together.

Only Cas isn’t in the kitchen making dinner. He isn’t anywhere on the first floor. Dean frowns and peeks out at the pool, into the library, confused. Car’s in the driveway. He’s gotta be upstairs, then.

He jogs up the stairs, feeling his calf muscles burn pleasantly with the extra exertion, and hollers Cas’s name down the hallway. No answer.

OK, weird. He scans the yard from the upstairs window. No sign. Heads down the hall to the master bedroom, nothing. But a soft scratching noise emanates from the room next door, the one where he’d had all his things. Dean retreats from the bedroom, presses his ear against the closed door. “Cas?” he says softly.

Silence for a second, and he panics. Then, softly, “I’m here.”

It sounds like Cas, but Cas doesn’t sound like Cas. His voice is muted, strangely… _off._ Dean doesn’t know how to describe it. He pushes open the door.

His things are scattered over the floor. Drawers are ajar. A photo album is open on the floor, and before it, Castiel, staring down at the spread of family pictures. In his hand is a glass. Next to him, an empty bottle of vodka. Next to it, another, half-full.

“I’m sorry,” Cas says, mournfully, looking up at him with bright eyes.

“What the—” Dean goes to him, kneels. Castiel exhales, and his breath is rank. “You’re— you’re absolutely wasted, aren’t you?”

Castiel nods. He tries to fit his lips around _I’m sorry_ again, but he can’t get the words out. His eyes succeed in conveying it, though, and altogether he’s the spitting image of a misbehaving puppy caught in mid-romp.

“What the hell?” Dean slides a hand under Castiel’s chin, forces his gaze up to meet Dean’s, and frowns. “What brought this on, Cas? I thought you couldn’t even drink. I thought it hurt you. Cause of, what was it, the sin?”

“Some things hurt more,” Castiel says. He doesn’t explain.

A sickening curl of horror weighs down Dean’s stomach. He looks around at the messy room and shakes his head. “What were you doing in here?” he says. “You — it looks like you were trying to get into everything I own. Were you looking for something? Cause with all my crap, you might have done better just asking me.”

“I couldn’t.” Castiel reaches out and traces a finger over the plastic-covered photographs. “Your family is beautiful, Dean. I knew, but… these pictures. I don’t have any such pictures of my own.”

“We’ve taken pictures,” Dean says hurriedly. “We could take more if you want. I could get my phone. I mean, it’s run out of charge, cause… you know… I can’t actually call anybody.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel whispers, and the whisper trembles, as though he’s having trouble expelling the air from his lungs. “I’m sorry, Dean, I wish there was another way, you know I don’t want to keep you from your family.”

“Hey.” Dean leans forward and grabs Castiel by the shoulders. “Hey. It’s okay. I chose this, remember? I chose you. You’re my family, too.”

“Would you choose it again?” Castiel asks. “If you knew… if you knew it meant being cut off from seeing them? If you knew it meant this cr… this _shit_ with the sacraments?” He makes an effort to say the swear, and Dean’s eyes widen. He knows it hurts Castiel to even hear swears, though less lately — Dean’s own crudeness has taken its toll on his sensitivity. Why is Castiel trying to do all these things that cause him pain? Is this some kind of cry for help, some bizarre angelic form of self-harm? Dean wants to ask, but now Castiel’s seizing his sleeves, pulling on them, and insisting, “Answer me, Dean. Would you choose it again?”

Dean looks at him. He can’t lie. Castiel would know if he lied. He’d feel it as much as he’d feel that curse.

“I don’t know,” he says helplessly. “I didn’t know you, either. I didn’t know I’d … I’d care about you this much, so if you put me in that room and said all the things you’re saying, and… but Sam was sick, too, and… I just don’t know, Cas. I’m sorry, I wish I could say ‘of course I would,’ but I can’t.”

Castiel half-laughs. He lets go of Dean, turns his attention to the album again. In the picture he’s tracing his finger around, Dean and Sam are laughing in a rare afternoon outside, wearing matching baseball gloves. Dad has them in a one-armed hug, and Mom is laughing just outside, her face radiant. Looking at it, Dean misses them so much it hurts.

“I look at this,” Castiel says, “and I can’t help — I can’t help thinking it.”

“Thinking what?” That horror in Dean’s stomach twinges.

Castiel glances up at him, then looks away. “Wondering who you love more.”

Dean’s heart slams against his ribs. “That’s not a fair question, you know,” he says.

“I know.” Castiel sighs. “Which is why—why I didn’t ask. I just wonder.”

“You know it doesn’t work like that, right?” Dean says. He reaches over, closes the book slowly. “Love doesn’t get parceled out like slices of pizza. It’s just there. You give it to the people you give it to, and… and there’s more.”

“Then why is there marriage?” Castiel asks. “Why must we bind ourselves to one person and declare only them for the rest of life? What if there are others that we meet, and we want to love them, too? I mean…” He looks at Dean, suddenly panicked. ‘Not for me. For me there’s only you, there’s only ever been you, but Dean— what if I lose you?”

Panic rises up in Dean’s throat. He remembers a voice telling him, _you may be his now, Dean Winchester, but someday you’ll be mine._

“You’re not gonna lose me,” he says, but in his own ears the words sound hollow. “Cas, marriage is because— and maybe, maybe for some people they can do that, they can love more than one person, or they can just go through people, but for me, for— for most people, it’s about having a home. It’s about having a promise. This is where I belong, Cas. It’s my home here. You’re my home. And that is— you are important enough to me that I wouldn’t just throw that away. Even if someone comes along and makes a hell of an argument that they’re better for me than you.”

He takes Cas in his arms and holds him tight. “I made that promise, I closed that book. This is my world. I don’t wanna rip the foundation out from under that. I’d be lost. So maybe— maybe I can’t tell you that if I had known, I woulda made the same decision. But I can tell you that if I have the chance, now, to go a different way, I ain’t taking it.” He frowns into the air, challenging any invisible voices to dare say otherwise. The silence that follows is incredibly satisfying.

He kisses the top of Cas’s head. “This it it, man. You’re stuck with me.”

Castiel smiles against his skin, lips brushing his neck. “Thank you,” he says. “I hope that’s true.”

“What do you mean, hope?” Dean growls. “It is true. I just told you.”

Castiel pulls away. His smile has gotten silly. “Then tell me you love me.”

Dean sputters. “W-what?”

The smile grows into a stupid grin. Castiel’s head lags to the side. “Tell me you — you love me,” he slurs.

“You’re a lightweight,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “Seriously, that much vodka? On your first outing?”

“You’ve drank more.” Castiel frowns hard and tries to headbutt him, fails miserably, and ends up just brushing his chin with a ruffle of unkempt dark hair.

“Yeah, but I’ve had experience. Cas, that’s not even the good stuff and you’re gone.”

“Shut up.” He’s laughing again, nuzzling Dean like he’s a big cat.

“Shut up, yourself. I’m getting you to bed.” Dean rises to his feet, pulling Castiel up with him. Castiel stumbles to the side, and Dean gives a soft _whoa_ and adjusts to catch him. “C’mon, buddy. Arm around the shoulder. That’s it.”

“Sacrament tomorrow,” Castiel murmurs. “Ready, Dean, be ready.”

“OK, OK.” Dean eases him into the bedroom next door. “Everything will be OK.”

Castiel goes down easily and is snoozing before long. Dean’s arms around him help, and so does his repetition of the word “OK,” like a mantra. But long after he’s fallen asleep, and Dean’s extracted himself for a long-delayed post-run shower, the _OK_ rings in his own head, and it’s anything but comforting. What could tomorrow’s sacrament bring? Whatever it is, it was enough to cause Cas to abandon his usual calm and drink like a freaking fish. That’s anything but comforting. And he still doesn’t know why Cas was going through his stuff.

He just has to trust. Even though it feels, all at once, like Cas doesn’t really trust _him_.

It sucks. Almost as much as it sucks to go to bed hungry. But he’s lost that well-worked-up appetite.


	31. Part Twenty-Eight

Dean expects to wake up and find Castiel still sleeping, comatose and liquor-soaked, in the big bed they share. But he should know better. Angels must have a hell of a hangover-deterrence mechanism, he thinks as he sits up , alone, and glances around the room. For a second, panic strikes him. What if Cas is missing again? But his fears quickly come to naught. Castiel is sitting on the floor in front of the bedroom door, cross-legged, watching Dean carefully with that steady gaze of his. Dean exhales and waves good morning.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, smiling evenly. Dean realizes now he’s holding a paper in his hands. It’s carefully balanced across his palms, tilted upward, and Dean can’t see what’s on it. “Are you ready to begin the next sacrament?”

Dean yawns, stretches, cracks his neck. “What, before breakfast?”

“This sacrament lasts all day,” Castiel says. “Breakfast is a part of it. We begin now.”

Well. So much for needing time to recover. Dean reaches over and touches his toes, then gets up and starts rummaging for clothes to wear. “Yeah, OK. Nothing for it.”

“The good news is,” Castiel says as Dean gets dressed, “this one should be a good deal more pleasant than the others. Today is the day I knock on the doors of your soul.”  
  


He rises, crosses the room to meet Dean, and draws a hand across his cheek, then presses the paper into Dean’s fingers. Dean looks down at it. His morning-groggy brain takes a minute to realize the looping cursive is nobody’s handwriting he knows but the clinical print of an official certificate. His birth certificate, in fact.

“What do you remember,” Castiel asks, “about the day you were born?”

It’s an odd question. “Nothin’,” Dean says, sure he’s being set up. Questions during sacraments are usually tricks of some sort or another. “I mean, I know what Mom’s told me about it. She said it was raining, but the moment I was born the clouds parted and sunshine came into the room at the hospital. She said it was like the angels had come down to greet me.” He stops. “Wait. Was it really—?”

Castiel chuckles. “No. But it sounds like your birth was a very emotional experience for her.”

“I suppose having a kid usually is. Do you remember anything about when you were born?” He frowns. Were you even born? I mean, I know there’s the holy spirit and everything, but God doesn’t exactly have a wife, does he?”

“Not in our mythology, no,” Castiel says. “I was born, in that there were days before I was, and then one day I began to exist. I could tell you about that day, but it was unremarkable. At once, there I was, fully formed and aware of my part in the divine plan.”

“Hunh.” Dean suddenly has about fifty questions. What _is_ his part, anyway? Does that mean he never got to be a kid? Would he have preferred to be born of human parents, with a family and a chance to decide his own destiny? Or is there something awesome about being an angel (besides all the funky powers and the wings and things) that Dean can’t comprehend? Because funky powers and wings are cool, but he doesn’t see how they beat free will.

“You’re thinking very hard,” Castiel says. “Anything you wish to share with me?”

Dean twists his lips into a tight purse. “Nah,” he says after a moment of tight-lipped thinking, “I don’t think so. Just amazes me sometimes how we’re so different, you know?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, “I suppose I do. But perhaps we’re not so different after all.”

He lays the birth certificate down on the bed and opens the door. “Go on,” he says, gesturing Dean forward.

Now Dean can see why Castiel was going through his things yesterday. The hallway is littered with items, some of which Dean didn’t realize he’d even brought with him; then again, he hadn’t been the one to pack. His things had appeared, as if by magic, in Castiel’s house. A roller skate here, a set of building blocks there. Tiny T-shirts, one that says “I WUV HUGZ” in annoying blocky letters and Dean resolves to retroactively kill his mother for ever dressing him in. A model car set on a circular track that Dean remembers endless hours of fun with. A crayon drawing of four stick figures holding hands, the smallest of which has a circular blob instead of feet, and Dean figures is supposed to be Sammy when he was a baby. The memories overtake him one by one as he makes his way down the hall, and he smiles and laughs, caught up in a past he’s never remembered this clearly or this much all at once.

He pauses at the head of the stairs, waiting for Castiel to catch up. “I had a pretty neat childhood, I guess.” he says,. “I mean, a lot of this if from before Sammy was born, or while he was still a baby, but I remember a lot of it. Better than I thought I did. That’s kind of cool.”

“I’d like to have had a childhood,” Castiel says under his breath.

“Uh.” Dean fights for a response but can’t really think of one. He’d been wondering that himself, after Castiel had mentioned how he was born, but now that he knows Castiel has that regret, he doesn’t know how to address it. Maybe he should take Cas out to some carnival, give him a chance to feel like a kid. But when you can fly, what’s the point of roller coasters? He suddenly feels inadequate to give Cas anything he might need.

Castiel smiles brightly at him. “Pardon me,” he says. “I was thinking out loud. Would you like to go downstairs and have some breakfast?”

–-

A single slice of apple pie. Sunlight streaming through a window. It’s as perfect a breakfast panorama as Dean could ask for, but he’s struck dumb, and there’s tightness in his chest. He’s been here before.

He lingers in the doorway. This spacious kitchen is nothing similar to the one in his childhood home. The layout’s not the same, only the light and the single slice of pie, fork angled toward it on the small plate. And still Dean’s blood runs cold. He feels as though he’s being pulled through a warped mirror, back through time into a place he doesn’t want to visit again.

He takes a single step forward, then stops, frozen again. He can hear her voice, see the shake of her shoulders in front of him, even though she’s not there.

“Mom,” he whispers.

Castiel’s behind him, and Castiel heard, that much Dean knows. He should say something. Explain his motionlessness. But he’s also suspicious, because there’s no way Castiel could have done this and not know… but there’s also no way Castiel could know.

“What is this?” he says, trying to accuse. His voice chokes.

“Dean,” Castiel replies. “That’s what I need you to tell me.”

So this is what a knock on the doors to the soul feels like. Dean can feel it now, the long tolls of his heart contracting beneath the weight and sound of it. He doesn’t want to be here. But it’s a memory he has to face if he wants to make it through this sacrament. He takes a deep breath and resolves that this isn’t where he’ll falter. Not after so long.

“My mom and dad,” he says. He clears his throat, tries to speak loud enough that Cas can hear him. But he can’t turn away from the scene, can’t face Cas and speak. He’s too riveted in the past. “They were fighting all night the night before. I hid in my room and cried. I heard the door slam.

“Mom came up to my room after and I was crying so hard. She said it was okay, everything would be fine, but I was so scared. I knew Dad wasn’t coming home that night, and I thought my parents were gonna split up. The…” He choked on a laugh. “The only reason I stopped crying and went to sleep was because she promised that if I calmed down, I could have pie for breakfast the next morning.”

“I see.” Castiel’s voice is a reminder that the present still exists, even though the past seems to be playing out again as Dean speaks. He clings to it, and it gives him a bit of light in the murky corridor of memory.

“Next morning, I come downstairs and sure enough there’s the pie. But I see her in the kitchen, trying to smile at me, and I know looking at her that she didn’t sleep, and Dad’s not around either… and I couldn’t eat any pie while she was that upset. I went over to her and told her that I’d never leave her like Dad did, I’d always come home—”

And here he’s left home after all, but because once Sam was born it was always about Sam, all the time. Had he done Mom wrong by going? Even though she had wanted him to go, had encouraged and helped him? God, _no_ … he’s getting all caught up in stupid questions, and he has to make it through this memory, or they’ll never move on.

“Anyway,” he says. “She hugged me, she called me her little angel…”

Again with the angels. Again. Why has it always been angels?

He tries to laugh at it, and the sound of his own laughter brings him around. “And Dad eventually did come home, but I wouldn’t believe they’d really made up until we all sat down and had pie together. Guess that’s why I love it so much. Pie means family.” He turns to Cas. “I know now, married people have fights, but I was so little, and it was the first time I realized that something that’s right can go wrong. First time I realized things besides toys can be broken, you know?”

Castiel nods. “I suppose I do.”

Now Dean focuses on him for the first time since facing him, and he sees a cloud in Castiel’s eyes. “What is it?”

Castiel sighs. “I too had a time when I learned things can be broken. For me it was when my brother Michael cast Lucifer into Hell.”

“Whoa, really?” Dean’s eyes widen. “That really happened? Like in the Bible?”

“Yes.” Castiel’s eyes lower, and he reaches for Dean’s hands, holds them fast to keep his own focus and balance. “I had never seen such bitter fighting among my brothers. We had always been one family, but Lucifer… he recruited followers, and suddenly it was brother against brother, brother killing brother. You can’t imagine, Dean. I thought I knew everyone’s place in the world, why we were angels, what our Father had meant by creating us, and then… we were all called on to take sides. Against each other, against our brothers.”

“Whose side were you on?” Dean asks before he can think better of it. “I mean… if I can ask.”

“Need you ask?” Castiel smiles softly. “I’m still alive. That means I was on Michael’s side.”

“Oh.” And suddenly Dean knows just how bloody the war was. “I, uh… I see.”

“Not everyone on our side survived.” Castiel’s hands are limp in Dean’s, and Dean holds them all the firmer, tries to make up the lost strength. “I lost a dear brother, dearer than most. And one of the most brilliant angels under God’s command went missing.” He smiles. “You would have liked him. I choose to believe he is still alive somewhere. He was like me, conflicted. He didn’t want to choose sides. I suspect he ran away.”

“A renegade angel, eh?” Dean’s eyebrows lift. “So they do exist.”

“I hope he still exists,” Castiel says. “I only wish the others could have survived as well.”

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean says. He reaches out and wraps Castiel in an embrace. Castiel falls limp into it and lingers there, fingers digging against Dean’s shirt, and Dean tries to imagine a world fallen into chaos, brothers become enemies. He can’t possibly. Not when his brother is the whole reason he was willing to throw away his old life. He’d do anything for Sam, and he can’t even envision a scenario where they’d become enemies. For Castiel to have to strike his brothers down…

“Hey,” he says, “look, you have family left. You have your brothers now, right?” It feels weird to encourage Cas to cling to his current brothers, not with what Dean knows they’ve done to their husbands. He sighs. “Even if they’re dicks sometimes.”

Castiel shakes his head. “You’re the only family I want,” he whispers fiercely into Dean’s shoulder.

Dean loves him so much in that moment it hurts. He squeezes him tight.

When the embrace’s strength has faded, when they’re both clinging instead of gripping tight, Dean smiles into Cas’s hair. “Hey, why don’t we sit down and have some pie?” he says.

Castiel laughs, then looks up at him. “Because pie means family?”

“Yeah.” Dean was going to mention his stomach grumbling, but he likes Cas’s idea better. “That’s right,” he says as they walk into the sunny kitchen together. “Because pie means family.”


	32. Part Twenty-Nine

Pie for breakfast is a pleasant way to start the day, and Dean’s beaming and brimming with happiness by the end of it. He’s nearly forgotten that he had to face that painful memory, and when he does remember, he can’t bring himself to feel bad. It’s like, through reliving it, he’s worked through it somehow, and right now he can only muster up feelings of warmth and gratitude when he looks across the table. Cas had promised this sacrament would be pleasant; maybe the moments of discomfort were the last he’d feel today.

He should know better.

“So what happens now?” he asks, rubbing his belly, as he gets up from the table. “We keep playing ‘This Is Your Life’?”

Castiel shakes his head, puzzled. “Your life is not a game.”

“It’s a… you know what? Never mind.”

Taking the dishes to the sink, Castiel runs the water over them briefly, then lets them sit. “In any case,” he says over the sound of the faucet running, “reviewing your life is only half the sacrament.”

“Oh? And what’s the other half?”

Castiel turns back and presses slightly damp hands into his. “I must show you mine.”

  
Dean’s eyes widen. Ever since the day the angels came, promising to deliver the continent from the grip of the demon infestation, rumors and questions have swirled about what they are, where they came from. Most people wanted to believe that they came from heaven, as they claimed — after all, the demons’ invasion had proved there was a hell — but nobody knew just what or where that was. The angels never spoke about it, and as open as Castiel is, he rarely lets Dean see behind that curtain. A nervous, heady excitement simmers in Dean’s blood. He might just learn something today that the rest of the world has been dying to know.

“So how far back are we talking here?” he asks as Castiel leads him out through the back doors onto the sunny porch. “You told me you were never a kid, but what were you, before you all came down here?”

“The closest I can come to expressing my true form is…” Castiel pauses, his mouth quirking. “Light, I suppose. In that it is made up of both wavelength and photonic matter.”

“You’ve already lost me.”

“Though without physical form, angels nevertheless have a substantial impact on the universe,” Castiel says. “We affect what happens on this plane without being bound to it. Just as the sun heats the earth without touching it.”

Dean looks up at the sun and tries to imagine its rays as a million and a half individual angels, each conveying both warmth and weight on the world. Seems to him you don’t need angels for that. Humans manage it just fine.

“If you can do that,” he says, “why bother coming down here and getting physical?”

“My father respected the humans’ ability to shape their own destinies,” Castiel replies. “But when the demonic plane decided their ambitions would better be served by direct interaction with the humans, it seemed the only way to preserve the balance of the universe.”

Dean has a lot of problems with that answer. Chief among them is that the angels could have come down anytime to make life easier for humans, and they decided not to, until the demons had already well and truly screwed things up. He scowls, the brightness of the day’s sun painting dark shadows on his face. For an instant, when he looks at his reflection in the glass of the porch doors, he doesn’t recognize himself.

He doesn’t like himself like that. He doesn’t like being the guy who doesn’t trust Cas, or believe in him. But what else can he do? As great as Cas is to him, he’s still an angel, and nothing about what the angels are doing on earth passes the smell test. At least the demons are straightforward about wanting to own every human soul on the planet and drive it into ruin. He doesn’t like that, but he can almost respect it. The angels on the other hand… well, he doesn’t believe even messengers of God are that selfless.

“You’re right to doubt,” Castiel says, and his voice is low and almost furtive. “That is one great advantage to being human. You have the freedom to doubt and question. I wouldn’t have you any other way. I…”

He’s quiet. Dean eyes him suspiciously. “You what, Cas?”

Castiel’s eyes dart to his, then away again. “I wish I had that freedom, as well. But angels are manifestations of the divine will. We do not doubt.”

“Because you don’t know how?” Dean presses. “Or because you’re afraid to?”

Castiel is silent again.

Dean sighs and has a seat on the deck chair. Looking out over the pool, he frets at how accustomed he’s become to this view. The pool, the library… all the trappings of this house he’s come to think of as home. They were the pipe dreams of a blue-collar kid once — not even that — they were someone else’s dreams, and he took them on only grudgingly. He would have been happy fighting off demons and taking care of Sam for the rest of his life, but he came here instead. For Sam’s sake. He’s forgotten that, gotten submerged in the sea of wealth and comfort he’s been offered. Suddenly, he’s intensely uncomfortable in his surroundings.

“We must continue the sacrament, Dean,” Castiel says, and there’s an alien firmness to his words. Dean nods.

“It’s important for you to know that I have not devoted my entire existence to you up to now. As I said, angels have effects on the phsyical world even without human form. I had my duties, as did my brothers.”

“What kind of duties?” Dean frowns. “Last time I checked, the world pretty much ran itself. You gonna tell me there’s an angel making the wind blow every time he farts?”

“There are things in your world beyond physical explanation,” Castiel says.

“Not many.”

Castiel takes his hand. “Look at what happened between us. Is there an explanation for that?”

Sure there is — pheromones, Stockholm syndrome, behaviorial psychology — but Dean can’t think of it, not with Castiel looking at him like that. He squeezes Castiel’s hand. “So what was your job, then? Chief gay marriage Cupid? Meteor puller? Genetic lottery official?”

“Nothing so interesting,” Castiel says, and his eyes dart away for a moment. “I was in charge of something simple. It’s not worth speaking of.”

“Sure it is.” Dean’s got hold of the bait now, and he’s not letting go. “Come on, Cas. What’s your job title? Are you the guy who turns the coffee from hot to cold in the two minutes it takes to get off the phone? Inquiring minds want to know.”

“Dean.”

“No way, man. You’re telling me. What are you angel of?”

Castiel blushes. “Thursday.”

Dean’s jaw drops open.

“I told you it was simple.”

“Thursday?” Dean parrots.

“Yes.”

“But Thursday is just what happens when Wednesday’s over. why do you need an angel for Thursday?”

“Time exists in a sacred order,” Castiel says. “It is the one thing in the physical world that humans cannot manipulate, but it can be difficult to control. It needs constant vigilance.”

“So if you were asleep on the job, Wednesday would end and we’d go right into Friday?” Dean’s mind is boggling. This would all make a hell of a lot more sense if he were high on something.

“Maybe. Maybe not. At one point, the angel of Wednesday was tied up and a few poor souls had about two hundred Tuesdays in a row. It did not go over well with the archangels.” Castiel’s tone is serious, but his eyes narrow, and Dean senses sly amusement in the way they catch his own gaze.

“So who’s running Thursday while you and I are playing house?”

“A lesser angel. So far the timestream has remained intact. I must admit to breathing a sigh of relief every time Thursday comes and goes as scheduled.”

Dean laughs. “Now you’re just screwing with me.”

“Dean.” The amusement has left Castiel’s eyes. “You must understand what upheaval it caused in heaven when the demons came to earth. We were pulled off our most menial tasks to handle a much more important task.”

“To find the chosen one, or whatever,” Dean says, “yeah, I know.” He pauses. “Cas, it really could be me, couldn’t it? I’ve passed a hell of a lot of these tests.”

Castiel gets up from the chair and strides to the edge of the porch. His back is to Dean as he speaks. “I have never heard of anyone completing more than seven of the sacraments.”

“And this is number eleven, right?”

“Right.” Castiel’s voice is low. “It… worries me, Dean.”

“Yeah. Me too.” Dean rises and slides behind him, wrapping arms around Castiel’s waist and clasping hands over his stomach. His chin digs into Castiel’s shoulders. “What happens if we hit lucky thirteen?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Look, no matter what happens, we do this together.” Dean kisses Castiel’s ear. “I promised you that in the beginning, and I keep my promises.”

“Dean,” Castiel says urgently. He says Dean’s name a lot, but this one is an interruption. Dean straightens up, hands falling to his sides, and waits for the rest.

It never comes. Castiel sighs, shakes his head, and turns to him. His smile is forced. “Would you like to see how I came to know you?”

“How you… what?”

“The sacrament is not limited to simply telling you about my life, Dean. You must see it for yourself. As I have seen yours.”

Dean starts, confused and a little scared, but in another moment Castiel has pressed two fingers to his forehead and he’s lost in darkness.

* * *

  
He doesn’t understand this body. He doesn’t need to understand it, just inhabit it — it’s a tool to be used. This he’s been told, but the way it moves, the prickle under his skin at the slightest breeze and the strange tightness in his throat when he craves water, fascinates him. He could spend a long time simply exploring this body, understanding the mechanisms of sense and feeling. The sexual organs interest him particularly, considering the mission he’s been given.

But there is no time for that. He stands by his brothers’ side as they announce themselves to the world and begin to fan out across the country. You will find him a righteous man in hell, he has been told. A brother and a warrior. Find the One and bind to him. And if he should prove true, we will see our Paradise realized. If he should be false…

“…then what? What happens if I’m not the one, Cas?”

Silence.

“Cas?”

Dean looks in the mirror. Blue eyes look back. He tries to speak again, but the words come out. They only ever sounded in his mind to begin with. Dean questions, he cries out, but his movements happen in a space that doesn’t exist. He’s a passenger in another’s mind.

He’s in Castiel.

No, he _is_ Castiel.


	33. Part Thirty

He’s looking at himself in the mirror. Human. He’s been watching them for so long, it seems odd to be one. Closing his eyes, he stretches his wings, reminding himself that this is a vessel. He is still angelic. He still has a purpose.  
  
 _“Vessel? So what, you’re possessing some poor bastard?” No answer. Dean’s alone on this ride. So he settles for color commentary. “I thought you angels could make your own bodies. But I guess that makes more sense — or you’d all look like friggin’ Calvin Klein models.”_  
  
But where to start? He’s been dispatched to this flat, uninteresting part of the world to fight the demons, but his purpose beyond that is a quest he has no idea how to pursue. The humans have a phrase for it. Looking for a needle in a haystack.

This seems so much harder.

 

He asks Uriel, but Uriel just chuckles and says, “Castiel, you have never been very good at thinking like our enemy. Remember, the demons are looking for our prize as well. Where are they? That’s where you will find your answer.”

Uriel is an unpleasant character, but he’s a master tactician, and deadly in battle. Castiel begrudgingly respects his judgment. He throws himself into battle with the demons, expecting that one or more of them will crack under pressure and give him an idea where he should find his target.

_“Wait. What? The demons are looking for the One too? You didn’t tell me that part.” All Dean can think is_ shit, it’s my fault Sam got attacked. They were looking for me the whole time.  _But that kind of thinking, while it usually will take over his mind and keep him from thinking about anything else, falls away in the face of what he’s seeing. Castiel fighting demons. White light pouring from his hand, demons burning out of their bodies, falling limp onto the floor. It’s like nothing he’s ever seen. Castiel’s a warrior. If Dean could feel his own heart right now, he knows it would be pounding. All this time together and he’s never seen this side of Cas._

  
He catches her trying to run from the scene of a battle where the angels and demons have been locked in combat for hours. The angels have gained the upper hand — they always do, sooner or later — and the demons are starting to scatter, determined to preserve their small, confused lives. Castiel tackles her, ends up on top of her on the floor, and she scowls up at him through black eyes and hisses, “Careful, big boy, you’re gonna end up turning me on.”  
  
If the feeling is mutual, Castiel doesn’t have time to acknowledge it. “What are you doing here?” he says. “What were you after?”  
  
“After? You’re crazier than the rest of them. I’m here for revenge.” She points at the small farmhouse at the top of the hill. “That sad little meatsack killed my father. Wouldn’t you do the same thing?”  
  
 _“That’s my—”_  
  
Castiel grabs her wrist, inscribes a binding sigil there that keeps her from flying away into a new body. She screams in pain, and when Castiel hauls her to her feet, she goes grudgingly, glaring at him the whole time. “I wasn’t aware demons had families,” he says.  
  
She glares harder. “What you don’t know about us could fill a book.”  
  
He twists her wrists. “And I also wasn’t aware humans could kill demons.”  
  
“That one’s new to me, too.” She shakes her head. “But I never saw a gun like that in my life.”  
  
 _“Holy crap,” Dean bursts out. “She’s talking about the Colt.” Dad never let him touch that gun, no matter what. If Dean ever touched it, his dad said, he’d end up locked in Sammy’s bedroom and he’d never touch a gun again._

_The thing about his dad killing a demon is news, too._

She calls herself Meg, and with some further arm-twisting, literal and figurative, she agrees to tell Castiel the whole story. The way I hear it, his wife had made some kind of deal with my dad, a ten-year contract for saving someone’s life. Anyway, the husband finds out about it and gets obsessed with tracking down the demon who made it, voiding the contract. Nobody knows how he did it or how he found the gun, but he did it. Didn’t do it for free, though. Even if I can’t get to shiv him, he doesn’t know what the deal was really about. It was never for her soul.”

“Then what was it for?”

Meg grins. “His son.”

* * *

Castiel can see beyond solid walls, if he tries. He stands outside the farmhouse and stretches past the limits of his physical body, tries to look through shut doors and into the lives of a family that has garnered so much of the demons’ attention.

_“Perv,” Dean comments. He wishes he had some popcorn to munch._

He sees the blood first: pure and evil, pumping through foreign veins. Demon blood. His heart races. He will have to tell his superiors about this. Any chance they have to abort a demon before it becomes fully formed is a good one. They may have to cut this one down before it can fester much longer.

_Screw popcorn. “The hell you will.” Knowing that he didn’t is small comfort. Even for a fraction of a second, Castiel considered killing Sam. That should be a deal-breaker, right there. It’s a good thing Dean can’t control the body he’s riding in, because he’d make Cas sock himself in the jaw._

He takes a wider view, sees the human through whom the blood is flowing, and his heart twinges. This is a child. Well, a young man, but one look at he knows just how unfortunate he is. A day outside is a luxury to this boy. What horror it must be, to be denied the glory of God’s creation, all do to a frail body. Castiel doesn’t need to exterminate anything: the demon inside this boy is killing him already.

The boy speaks. “Hey, Dean,” he says, in a soft tenor. “You think I’ll ever get married?”

“Hm?” There’s someone by his bedside, Castiel realizes. “What’s that, Sammy?”

“I was just thinking about it.”

“Just thinking about it, my ass.” There’s a joke in that tone. Castiel isn’t good with humor, but he recognizes it, and it strikes a warm, welcome chord. “You were looking out the window again, weren’t you? Just invite her up, Sam.”

“And say what?” Sam leans back on the bed and crosses his arms. “Hey Jess, c’mon up and let’s talk about the school I don’t go to and the world I’ve never seen. By the way, I’m the sickie that they talk about in school.”

“Nobody talks about you in school.”

“How would you know? You never go.” A flare of anger rolls through Sam’s voice, and Castiel can see the demon blood roil. His own nerves start to jangle. In a few minutes of conversation he’s gone from an objective observer to actively caring. It would be wonderful if this Sam could someday see his wedding day, but with every step he takes into bitterness and anger, the faster the infection spreads.

“Listen to me, Sammy.” The endearment makes Castiel want to smile. Big hands grab Sam’s. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. You say the word and I’ll go get that girl, and all you have to do is ask her about herself. She’ll wanna tell you everything. And then the violins will start to play, and I’ll have to run out and get you some condoms—”

“Dean!”

“—and before you know it she’ll pull a naughty nurse and get you healthy again, and soon you’ll be saying ‘I do’ in front of about a thousand of your closest friends while I stand there watching. That’s the price of bringing her up here, by the way. I have to be the best man when you get married. Otherwise, no dice, Rapunzel.”

Sam laughs, his whole face lighting up. “Well, duh,” he says. “What kind of jerk would I be to not choose my big brother as best man?”

He’s flushed and joyous, and to Castiel’s eyes it’s a miracle. A boy with demon blood, sick and wasting away, able to laugh that fully and look for an instant like he’s been touched by the divine presence. _That’s love, isn’t it?_ Castiel thinks. _That’s the power of family. It’s been far too long since I’ve seen it up close._

Something akin to jealousy swims in his chest. He wants it, too. And he looks for the first time at the man named Dean, the one who’s making Sam transform so completely.

He’s extraordinarily handsome. But that’s not what hooks Castiel. What gets him is the look in Dean’s eyes, the singleminded focus on his brother’s face. And the sag of the chair underneath him, the grooves in the floor that tell Castiel he’s sat here by his brother’s bedside for hours and months and years. There’s gunpowder residue under his fingernails, there’s soreness in his muscles and bags under his eyes. A million small details that tell Castiel everything about this man. His human heart is pounding. What a history is contained in this body. And what simple humor and unadulterated love is in his heart.

Yes, Castiel wants it. He wants this man.

“But fair’s fair,” Sam says, shaking a finger at Dean. “When you get married, I gotta be your best man too.”

“Pff.” Dean rocks back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “I’m never getting married.”

“Sure you will!” Sam’s indignant. “You’re gonna meet somebody, and the look in their eyes is gonna blow you away, and you’ll be running down that aisle fast as you can. You don’t fool me one bit, Dean. You’re a romantic.”

“That’s crap,” Dean says sternly, but his gaze is uncertain.

“Believe what you want,” Sam says, “but I know better. Promise me, Dean. I’ll be the best man at your wedding, too.”

Dean looks at him soberly. “Sammy, I swear to you. On the off chance I ever get married, even if we have to hold the wedding in this room, you will be my best man.”

He grins. Sam smiles back. And Castiel has fallen so deeply in love that all thoughts of his mission and his target have disappeared. He wants nothing more than to stand in front of Sam’s bed and take Dean as his husband.

* * *

  
“I want Dean Winchester.”

Castiel is sure his hair is on fire. The tips of his fingers tingle. Simply speaking has never been this terrifying and exciting. It’s like holding out a piece of his soul for analysis and being blinded by its light.

And yet the response he gets is underwhelming. “Who?” Uriel tilts his head. The other angels start to whisper and murmur to one another.

“His name is Dean Winchester,” Castiel says. “He lives at the house where we found the demons yesterday. I want him for my husband.”

“Castiel.” Uriel chuckles. “I’m very aware you’re a bit of a romantic. You’ve always had your head in the clouds. But you can’t simply choose some human who’s pleasing to you.”

“He has a brother,” Castiel says.

Uriel stops short. “I’m listening,” he says after a long, guarded beat.

“His brother has been infected by demon blood,” Castiel goes on. “He’s been sick ever since. Dean has —” He flushes at referring to Dean as though they are friends, as though they’d ever met. “He has stayed at Sam’s side for a long time.”

The other angels have started to murmur. One of them, a white-haired man with a wide grin, places a hand on Uriel’s shoulder and leans in to murmur in his ear. Uriel listens, then grunts a grudging affirmation of whatever he hears.

“So what you’re telling me, then,” he says, “is that this Dean Winchester could very well be the One.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s why you want to marry him?”

Castiel is silent.

Uriel breaks into loud, brash laughter. “You’re hopeless, Castiel. Let me ask you this. Are you aware of what will happen if this crush of yours  _does_ turn out to be the One? Are you prepared to offer him up?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, but he’s trembling minutely.

“And his brother, too?”

_“Wait, stop, hold the phone. What about Sam?”_

Castiel takes a deep breath. “Yes.”

_“What do you mean, yes? Damn it, Cas, you never said anything about Sam being part of this arrangement.”_

“And are you prepared to give him to one of our brothers if he does not end up being the One?”

_“Cas, get me out of this Vulcan mind meld right frigging now. You’re not giving me to anybody, you hear me? What the hell does that mean, give me? Answer me, damn it!”_

Castiel’s shaking all over. He barely speaks the word, but he speaks it nonetheless.

“Yes.”

And with that yes, Dean hauls himself headfirst out of Castiel’s consciousness and falls backward onto the slats of the back porch.

—

He’s smarting. The pleasant weather of the afternoon seems to be pulsing in and out of his consciousness. He blinks up at Castiel, who kneels immediately and takes both his hands. “Dean, let me explain,” he says.

Ass bruising, head pounding, Dean snatches his hands away. “You better damn well explain. “Something’s gonna happen to Sam if I end up being the One? I didn’t sign on for that, Cas. You can’t tell me I’m supposed to take that lying down. And how come you were so willing to give me up if I wasn’t the One? I thought it was love at first sight.”

“I didn’t yet know what love was,” Castiel says softly. “I was still thinking like an angel. It was inevitable that I would have to leave you behind someday. So, seeing my time with you as limited, I chose to claim you for the time I could have you. I wanted to know you, to be with you that badly, Dean. I was willing to be your husband for an hour, a day, if it just meant I could be with you.”

Dean wants to retort, but he can’t find the words. He glowers. His backside is starting to radiate with painful throbs where the bruises will surely show up tomorrow.

Castiel goes on. “Think about it, Dean. If you loved someone, but you knew you would lose them, would you truly give up the limited time you could have together? Would you give up your childhood with your brother if you knew you’d be torn away from him?”

“It’s not the same thing,” Dean says through gritted teeth. “Besides, if you really loved me, you’d know that’s not what love’s about. It’s not taking something for yourself.”

“Yes,” Castiel says, “you’ve taught me that. I didn’t yet know you, I didn’t yet know that when I agreed to Uriel’s terms. Maybe if I had, I would have made a different decision.”

“And so, what? It’s too late? I’m just gonna get thrown out with yesterday’s garbage?”

“Dean.” Castiel’s eyes meet his, and the intensity in them throws him for a loop. “If you can believe in nothing else, believe in this: I am not the mindless follower you may think. And I have taken steps.” His voice lowers. “This is all I can say for now.”

“You still haven’t answered my questions,” Dean says. “What happens if I’m not the One?”

“You’ve completed almost all the sacraments,” Castiel replies sadly. “Dean, for better or for worse, I truly believe you are the one we’ve been looking for.”

“So sooner or later you’ll, what, “offer me up”? Is that how Uriel put it?”

Castiel’s jaw sets. “Not if I can help it.”

“What?”

The blue eyes blaze into his. Castiel speaks slowly, emphasizing every word. “Dean. I can say nothing more.”


	34. Part Thirty-One

Dean’s getting really sick of waking up and having Castiel not be there.

It’s doubly bad this morning, because Cas didn’t even go to bed with him last night; after the sacrament was done, Castiel retreated into Dean’s old bedroom, the one he’s never actually slept in, and insisted that he was going to clean up all the things he’d littered around the hall as part of the sacrament. Dean offered to help, but Castiel had refused. “I made the mess,” he said, but his eyes didn’t meet Dean’s, and when Dean finally gave up and went to bed Castiel was still working, with the door closed, and Dean had to wonder if he’d fallen asleep in there.

That’s his first thought when he wakes up and the space beside him is blank and cool. He rolls over, wishing this morning would be like most mornings. No matter what they’d been through the night before, most mornings the roll over and into each other’s arms, holding each other close and just reveling, wordlessly, in the connection and closeness between them. Even lately, with the tensions that have arisen between them and the unanswered questions that each sacrament brings up, morning has been their sacred time. In the morning they’re not angel and mate, they’re man and man, Dean and Cas, and they care deeply about each other. Love each other, even, though Dean still hasn’t said it out loud.

He sighs, pushes his face into Castiel’s untouched pillow, inhales. So many secrets. So many unanswered questions. Has it finally been enough? Have they finally drifted apart? Now it’s not just the angels’ secrets, but Castiel’s own, things Castiel is doing of his own volition but can’t tell him about, and Dean doesn’t understand. Maybe that was the final straw, and the togetherness they’ve stolen is at last gone.

Or maybe he’s just fallen asleep in Dean’s old room. Dean gets up, stretches, and pushes open the bedroom door, walking into the hall. He listens at the adjoining room’s closed door for snoring or the sounds of activity, but there’s none.

“Cas?” he says. No answer. 

He pulls the door open. Castiel’s not there.

Neither are his things. The room is empty.

 

  


Dean races through the house, checking the library and the pool deck, feeling like he’s in some horrible state of deja vu. They just did this, Cas was just gone a few days ago, in that other sacrament when Dean came home to an empty house. Why is Cas disappearing such a part of their lives? Dean hates it. It makes him sick to his stomach. So many surprises, so many secrets. This isn’t what angels should be about. They should be about trust and comfort. Like they were when he was young, and his mom used to say angels watched over him. That was a good thing. Why does this have to be so different?

He misses his mom fiercely for an instant.

Turning the corner through the kitchen into the lobby, he stops short, nearly crashing against the wall. All his things are packed into suitcases, like the day he came, and they’re sitting in front of the doorway, a fence of luggage. And behind it, Castiel, dressed in his trenchcoat the way he was the first day they met, as though he is about to take a long vacation. Dean takes a step toward him. Castiel raises his palm to halt him.

“Dean,” he says, “stop. Don’t move. Listen.”

Dean freezes. The look in Castiel’s eyes is uncompromising, sober. Only a hint of sadness tints them, but it’s enough to make Dean’s heart lurch.

“You can go home,” Castiel says.

He’s been told to just listen, but Dean still has to blurt out, “ _What!?_ ”

“Today,” Castiel says. “You can go home. To your family. Your brother, your parents. This is a chance you have, Dean. But you have it today only. If you choose it, you can go home, and our marriage, the sacraments, the destiny we’ve been searching for… none of it will have happened. This is your only chance to get out.”

It’s as though an invisible wall separates them. Dean steps forward, but he can’t break through the space between them, can’t reach out and touch Castiel. Something primal in him has frozen. “Wait, hold on. What the hell are you talking about? How can that be? You told me yesterday you were sure I was the one you all were looking for. And now I can just split?”

“I also told you I was taking steps to protect you,” Castiel says. ‘I’ve secured this chance for you. If you take it, I can guarantee you, you will not be bothered again. Your association with the angels, with destiny and with the lore of the One, will be forever severed.”

“And my brother?” Dean clenches a fist. He hasn’t forgotten that missing link. “I agreed to marry you in the first place because they told me that was the only way to get Sammy well and protect my family. Is all that undone, too?”

“I can’t turn back time, Dean,” Castiel says. “Your brother has had treatment, he’s been taken care of. When you go home— _if_ you go home—- it will be to a healthy brother, and a family that is no longer set upon by demons. You will have the life you have always dreamed of having.”

“So if Sammy’s good,” Dean says, “why shouldn’t I just stay here?”

“Because this is the only way I can guarantee you will see them again.”

Castiel’s eyes darken, and Dean feels it like a punch to the gut. He tries to say something, but only a broken breath comes out.

“Remember, Dean,” Castiel says, “what you saw when you were inside my soul. If you continue on the path to be the One, whether you pass or fail the final sacraments, your destiny is out of my hands. Out of yours, even. This is your one chance to take control of it again. Your one choice.”

The three words fall on Dean’s ears heavily, and he can hear them reverberating there even after Castiel has fallen silent.

“So let’s both go, then,” he says, trying hard to smile. “You and me, we’ll run away from all this, I’ll introduce you to my folks, and we’ll live happily ever after. What do you say?”

“I can’t.”

He knew it was coming, but Dean flinches anyway. “Why not?”

Castiel has no immediate answer. His eyes meet Dean’s, and the wave of sorrow that emanates from them nearly bowls Dean over.

“Cas,” Dean says, taking another step forward. “What’s the catch?”

Castiel gives a soft half-smile. “You have to ask?” he says. “If you go home today, you’ll be released from our marriage. Which means I will never see you again.”

The door opens behind Castiel, as though a gust of wind has pushed it. He takes a step back. Framed in the sunlight streaming through doorway, he seems to blur at the edges. Dean squints.

“There’s a number on the refrigerator for a car you can call to take you home,” Castiel says. “You need to call by six-thirty. I’ll be back at seven. If you’re here, your chance is gone, and you and I will see this through until the bitter end.”

“Cas,” Dean says, a little too loudly.

“If you’re gone,” Castiel says, “then— goodbye, Dean.”

He turns his back. The sunlight blinds Dean for a moment. By the time he’s blinked it away, Castiel is gone.

* * *

Dean sits in the lobby, surrounded by his suitcases, for two hours, and just thinks. He owes Castiel that much, though everything in him wants to just fly after Cas and not stop until he’s held him so tight he never let go. If he’s reading between the lines correctly, Castiel has gone to some trouble to give him this chance, and that means Dean had better damn well consider it.

He keeps changing his mind every two minutes. One second he thinks Cas is an idiot for thinking Dean would leave him now, after all they’ve been through, and every danger they’ve faced together. Even now, it makes Dean sick to think he would ever let Cas go without even touching him. The lack of Castiel in bed next to him, the lack of a hug or a kiss or even a touch of hands goodbye, means he couldn’t possibly let this be the last time they ever saw each other. He’s become that used to Castiel’s skin, his taste and smell. His physical presence, borrowed though it might be (and Dean has wondered about that, since he saw into Castiel’s mind — who _is_ Castiel inhabiting, and is there someone else alive in there?), has become a constant in Dean’s life, and he doesn’t think he could let it go without a last gasp.

But the next minute he thinks of Sam. And how has hasn’t seen Sam since the day he married Cas.

What a weird turnaround. His whole life, he never went a day without seeing Sam. No, never mind seeing him, Dean would make time to spend serious brotherly bonding time with him every single day. It was one of the consequences of his failure to protect Sam, to keep an adequate eye on him, and Dean had never let himself believe that he’d made up for that, even if he could. It wasn’t just obligation, though — had never been just obligation. If it were, he’d be too resentful to even consider doing something like giving himself away for Sam’s sake. He and Sam were tied together by blood, and by shared sacrifice and suffering, and that wasn’t an easily broken bond. Dean spent all that time with Sam because he wanted to. Because he loved Sam deeply, and because for all the precious hours he could have spent getting laid or drunk or driving around town in Dad’s car, there was no substitute for being there, in Sam’s room, talking about everything and nothing, feeling like he was worth something for the way Sam’s eyes radiated hope and admiration into his own.

And from that to nothing, in the speed of a signature on a marriage contract? It was the worst kind of withdrawal. There were even times when Dean wondered if he hadn’t fooled himself into falling so hard for Cas, just so he wouldn’t be as achingly lonely for having no more Sam to talk to. Maybe he only thought he gave a damn about Cas because he needed _someone_ to connect to. Maybe his mind would break down if he thought he was utterly alone.

When he thought about it, wasn’t that the case? Castiel had told him about the lore and the sacraments, but what did Dean really know about what was behind it? Not enough to make any decisions. And Castiel told him wonderful things. Backed it up with wonderful actions, even. But what if Castiel was just a wonderful liar? Was there any evidence that anything he’d done — ever — was in service of anything other than finding the One?

Even this offer could be a lie. But it was the only thing Cas had ever offered him that had any possibility of giving him his old life back. And what kind of marriage could they have, when the whole thing was predicated on Dean leaving his family behind, never to be seen again? That wasn’t anything like what his parents had. It wasn’t like what anyone he knew had. But then again, he never knew anyone who’d married an angel before he’d come to live with Cas.

If Cas is lying about this, then Dean should leave him behind, go home, consider himself duped and get back to the rest of his life.

And if Cas is telling the truth, this is Dean’s only chance before the final door is closed and he’s facing down a destiny, and a future, filled with uncertainty. A future that might not even contain Cas, much less the rest of his family.

Either way, he’d be stupid to stay.

But even if he left, would he ever be able to let go of the longing, the emptiness that fills his arms right now, knowing Castiel is out of his reach, maybe forever?

Two hours passes as he goes back and forth on this, heart hurting no matter which way he leans, until finally his legs are asleep and he has to move before he starts growing mold.

He crosses back down the hall into the kitchen. Morning sunlight streams into this room during the early hours, but now, approaching noon, the sun’s rays hit the windows sideways and cast the place in an almost-gloomy half-light. Clean dishes sit on the drying rack, but their gleam isn’t blinding; even the skylight doesn’t send a ray of bright sunshine over the table. Must have gotten cloudy while Dean was sitting in the foyer stewing. He looks up through the skylight and can’t see the sun.

> _Angels cook._  
>  _I cook. I find it relaxing. And I wanted to be able to treat you right._

Their first breakfast in this room, their first full day of marriage. Dean had been so hesitant. And Castiel had greeted him with bacon and pancakes, potatoes and coffee, and they’d slowly thawed the awkwardness between them. But by then, Dean had already fallen into Castiel’s bed, and the whole thing felt like they were under a spell. With no sun, no breakfast and no Castiel, the room seems drained of its magic. Is this the place Dean wants to stay? Doesn’t he miss a crowded, cozy kitchen in a farmhouse atop a hill?

He scratches his head and moves on. The next room over is the library. He has good memories of this room, too, and of the pool outside. He’s spent numerous days in here. Just reading. Or not reading. Lying on the couch with Cas on top of him, books forgotten, engrossed in the feel of their mouths together the way one can get swept up in a story. Exploring new worlds, either through books or each other.

> _What’s it been, now? Three weeks? Not three yet? Two?_  
>  _Five days, Dean. We’ve been married five days._

And time has flown like that. It’s been a few months, if that — it feels like years that they’ve been together, partly because it’s been like living in another world. There’s no way to compare the way time passes here to the way it used to. There are none of the usual rhythms of day and night, week in and week out. School, work, weekday and weekend — none of them matter. He and Cas have lived lives of luxury, broken only by the steady beat of the sacraments passing one by one. How long can Dean really expect that reality will continue to flow away unseen? The end had to come, sooner or later. The moment of truth, when he decides which world he wants to live in.

Outside, the trees cast dull shadows over the pool. Dean remembers countless underwater kisses, the drip-drip of soaked feathers. He crosses to the window, looks up, and remembers soaring through the sky.

_So you remember me._

He starts, backing away from the glass. “Not you again.”

_Do you think I’ve left? That I’ve ever stopped watching you, even for a minute?_

“I don’t give a damn who you are or what you’ve been doing. Get out of my head.”

_I’m not in your head, Dean. I’m here around you, watching you. You can hear me because you and I are connected._

“Well, good for you. You have something to say to me, say it. Or get lost.”

_I only have this to say: don’t think you can outrun your destiny. Castiel may think he is offering you an escape, but he can’t. No one can. You will be mine, sooner or later. And that’s true whether you go home or stay here. You have no choice, and you have_ no _escape._

Dean bolts. He runs from the library, jumps two steps at a time up the stairs, and sprints with clamorous footsteps down the hall toward the bedroom. Closing the bedroom door, he leans against it, panting heavily, and listens for the voice. Somehow he knows he won’t hear it here. This is sacred ground. This room is built on the faith he and Cas have had in each other, and if Dean wants to shut out naysaying voices, this is the place he can do it. Here, he is safe.

“Escape _that_ ,” he says triumphantly when silence surrounds him. It’s a lame put-down. But there’s no voice here to tell him otherwise.

In a choice between the voice and Castiel, he’ll believe Cas every time. But if it’s a choice between Castiel and his own heart, what’s he supposed to believe?

He sinks down onto the bed and pulls Castiel’s pillow to his chest. Inhales. Tries to memorize Cas’s scent to take with him, should he choose to go. Tries to remember Sam’s face and voice, should he choose to stay. The picture of his family that Cas had framed for Dean to keep in this bedroom is gone. Packed away, surely, with the rest of his things. It’s downstairs, with his worldly possessions and his decision.

Maybe he sleeps. Maybe he just sits in reverie for hours. But he feels as though he remembers every moment they’ve ever spent in this bedroom together. He hears the echo of every word they’ve ever spoken, feels the lingering touch of Castiel’s skin on his.

> _A brewski might have been a bit more my speed, but what the hell, it’s a wedding, right? Here’s to surprises._  
>  _May they always be pleasant ones._

> _I married you because I love you. Everything else aside, that is still true._  
>  _But it’s not the whole story._

> _Sammy. I worry about Sammy._  
>  _You’re a good brother. I assure you, he is in good hands._  
>  _You say that, but you don’t know it. How’m I supposed to know if I don’t talk to him?_  
>  _Dean. You must have faith._  
>  _You’re the angel. You can have faith. Me, I need proof._

Is that still the case? Has Dean come to a place where he no longer needs proof that his family is safe? Has he changed that much, become that dependent on his faith in Castiel, despite all the secrets?

What would Sam say? Sam, who begged him not to change who he was for the sake of some arranged marriage?

The light of day is fading as Dean sits up. The clock ticks past six-fifteen. Not much time left. But he doesn’t need it. He’s made his decision. He heads down the hall toward the staircase.

  


  


* * *

  
The clock chimes seven times. The doorknob turns, and the front door opens cautiously. Castiel enters the front hall of his house. No one is there to greet him. The suitcases are gone.


	35. Part Thirty-Two

Dean tries to imagine Castiel’s face when he comes home and sees the empty front hall of the house. He figures Castiel might be confused, then crestfallen. His shoulders might hunch over, and he might give a soft sigh.

“Dean?” Loud enough to echo through the halls. And then, “Damn it, Dean,” choked off, falling away.

Castiel might try to tell himself that he knew it would come to this, that he was just fooling himself thinking Dean might actually choose him. And then, the way Dean sees it in his mind’s eye, Castiel will walk down the hall to the kitchen, take the same slow tour Dean himself did before coming to his decision.

It breaks Dean’s heart a little to think of Cas like this, but not enough to move him. He knows what he’s doing.  
  
  


He wonders what it was like for Cas in this big house before Dean arrived. In Castiel’s absence, Dean had seen the whole place as half as bright and twice as big. A cavernous place, but at least it had been full of memories. When Castiel walks through the kitchen and library, when he looks out over the porch and the pool, does it seem to have reverted back to its old self? How empty was this gigantic house before Dean arrived to fill it with life and activity?

Maybe Dean’s kidding himself. Maybe Castiel had all kinds of parties and fun in this house before Dean arrived. But that’s not how it had seemed.

> _“Angels feel loneliness. We long for companionship. Is that so difficult to understand?”_

Cas had said that to him the day they met, when Dean was still getting used to the house. The loneliness hadn’t just been a word he spoke — it had been in his eyes. And the way Cas had longed for him, waited for him —

No. He has to stay steady. This was the right decision. It’ll all be worth it in the end.

He wonders if Cas will sit down on the couch in the library, where they’d lingered so often, or maybe step out onto the porch and dip his toes in the water where they’d shared romantic kisses and embraces that turned into more. Maybe he’ll linger at the refrigerator in the kitchen, where the number for the car service is taped over the carefully scrawled, and by now mostly scratched-out, poem of the thirteen sacraments.

_He shall find the One and bind to him…_

That’s a bond that ain’t so easily broken, Dean thinks with a soft smile. No matter where Dean goes or what road he takes. And now, even in this moment where sadness and uncertainty lingers over them both, he still can’t imagine it any other way.

Eventually, Castiel wanders up the stairs. Maybe he’s given up and is ready to turn in. Maybe he thinks to himself that in the light of morning, things will be better. Or at least that time will eventually heal the wound. Dean knows he’s wounded. He can’t hear the sighs, but he knows they must be coming every few seconds. Poor Cas. So defeated. So sure his faith has been ripped out from under his feet, and the one thing that he believed in for so long, the one person he believed in even when the belief wasn’t reciprocated, has betrayed him.

He pads down the hall and, probably resigned and sighing, opens the door to Dean’s old bedroom.

Dean doesn’t have to see to know how Castiel’s expression must change. And he doesn’t have to wonder why. He knows the way Castiel’s eyes must rove over the the pile of empty suitcases, the way his mind races. The way he figures it out, slowly at first, then all in a rush.

And he doesn’t have to guess at how the sudden cry sounds when it springs from Castiel’s lips. He can hear it from where he stands in the next room, hanging up the last of his clothes and waiting.

Castiel bursts through the bedroom door. His cheeks are bright red, and his eyes, huge and blue, connect with Dean’s own for an endless, hovering instant. Incredulity. Disbelief. Some anger. And a lot, a _lot_ , of relief.

Dean hangs up the shirt in Castiel’s closet and opens his arms.

“Dean,” Castiel says, still frozen for a moment.

And then he’s crossed the room, and then he’s warm and safe and real in Dean’s arms, and Dean didn’t realize until just this moment how much he needed that. When he made the decision to stay, he knew he’d get to touch Cas again, but now the uncertainty of before rushes back and he needs more contact. His mouth seals to Castiel’s skin, and once he’s started kissing him he can’t stop — Castiel’s neck, his shoulder, his flushed cheeks, his eyelids, and oh _yes_ his mouth. Wet searching lips that tilt up to let Dean ravish them, lips that moan into his and need more openly than Dean has ever felt them need before.

Castiel’s hands cinch onto the nape of his neck, and it’s Cas who breaks the kiss, but only to burrow his face into Dean’s neck and stay there, clinging hard and shaking. “I thought,” he starts, and doesn’t finish.

“You dropped me at ten thousand feet, once,” Dean reminds him. “Figured you deserved it.”

A laugh, soft and shaky, makes its way into Dean’s neck. “I deserve worse,” he says. “Dean, I was frightened. I was frightened and I was sad. So sad.” He speaks the words like they’re revelations. Dean sighs and hugs him tighter, arms wrapped around Castiel’s waist and hands pressed against his back. He doesn’t ever want to let go.

“We’re married, Cas,” Dean says. “I chose this. I’d still choose this, knowing everything. You’re my husband, and I made a vow.”

“You signed a contract,” Castiel reminds him. “There was no ceremony.”

“Then maybe there ought to be,” Dean says. “When all this is over, let’s get married, Cas. A real ceremony, like I promised Sammy a long time ago.”

He can feel the hesitation. They still don’t know what happens at the end of this road, whether they’ll even be around, much less together. But that doesn’t matter, not now. The future is uncertain, but the promise of the future is anything they want it to be.

Castiel nods. “I’d like that.”

For a moment they hold each other, thinking about wedding bells. Thinking about joining hands, sliding rings onto each other’s fingers. The smiles of those they love as they watch. Their lips curling around the words “I do.” And Sam, standing up as the best man, by their side where he belongs. Dean knows it’s in Castiel’s mind, too. That’s how close they’ve become, having knocked at the doors of each other’s soul.

Finally, Castiel pulls back. “But Dean… why?”

“Why what?” Dean draws his thumb over Castiel’s cheek. There may very well be the streak of a long-ago-shed tear there. To have this angel cry even a single tear for him is the kind of blessing Dean never thought he’d see in his life.

“Why did you choose to stay? I told you the marriage would—”

Dean kisses him. Soundly, firmly, briefly.

“Because I love you,” he says.

Time stops. Everything stops. The whole world revolves around those finally-spoken words.

Dean takes a breath. He says it again. “I love you, Cas.” It feels good resonating in his bones, sounds good in his voice.

Castiel dares to blink. “You do?”

And now it’s obvious. “Of course I do,” he says, raising an eyebrow as though he can’t believe Cas would even question it. “What do you think kept me alive when I was falling to my death, Cas? I thought about you. Every single time, every sacrament we’ve done, the only thing that kept me going was you.”

The look of disbelief is still on Castiel’s face. So Dean goes on. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You tell me all the time I’m a good guy, and for the first time in my life I believe it, because you make me better. How am I supposed to do anything but love you?” He grins. “You dumbass angel. You’re frigging stuck with me, so deal with it.” With that, he’s done talking. He leans in and bear-hugs Cas, squeezing him tight, then backs off and waits for a response.

Castiel’s face is alight with amazement. Not the expression Dean was expecting, but intriguing nonetheless. He speaks, half to himself. “This whole time I thought it was an exception to the rule. I thought my loving you was blasphemous enough in and of itself. But it’s been—” His eyes search Dean’s. “It’s been the key this whole time, Dean. You love me, and— and that’s why…”

Dean frowns. “Cas, what are you talking about? What’s the key? What key?”

And in an instant, Castiel’s mercurial face switches expressions again. He looks at Dean soberly, and if it weren’t for the mist swimming in his eyes Dean would find it hard to believe he’d been full of emotion a moment ago. “Dean,” he says, in that way he says Dean’s name that sounds like the tolling of a somber bell.

Dean swallows hard. “What?”

“Today,” Castiel says, “I gave you legs to stand upon the Earth, and you chose your place. You chose to stay here. Another sacrament has been completed.”

Blood drains from Dean’s face. His hands go cold, and he pulls back. “Cas, this… this whole thing was a _sacrament?”_

Castiel begins to shake. “I’m sorry,” he says, trying but failing to remain sober. “I’m sorry, Dean, but yes, it was.”

“So I couldn’t have gone home?” But the anger won’t come to the fore the way Dean wants it to. “If I’d gone home, it would have been a failure, and God knows what would have happened to me? Would I even have gotten to see my family?”

“No,” Castiel says hurriedly, “no, Dean, you’re wrong. This was a sacrament, but not like the others. There was no pitfall. This was truly your way out. Don’t you see? You do choose your destiny. This was your chance to opt out, to go home and demand the wheels keep turning without you. But if you had, you wouldn’t have been the One to begin with.”

And now all anger has evaporated into unadulterated confusion. “That just turns my head around. So I made the choice, but the choice was already made, so it didn’t matter, but it still matters? Just… _what_?”

“Destiny is strange in that way,” Castiel says. “Even as an agent of fate, I cannot comprehend it sometimes. I find it’s foolish to even try.”

“You’re probably right,” Dean says.

“But the remarkable thing is,” Castiel goes on, “I thought that my loving you made it less likely you would be the One. I held out hope that, perhaps, despite each sacrament you completed, my feelings for you — completely inappropriate feelings, not like anything else my brother angels had for their husbands — would invalidate them. Day after day, I thought, maybe we can just run away. Maybe we still have a chance to live out our lives in peace together.

“It’s just the opposite, and I can’t believe I didn’t realize it sooner. If you didn’t love me, you never would have chosen to stay, and the sacrament never would have been completed. That’s what I mean about destiny.”

“Destiny is a tricky bitch,” Dean says, his mind reeling.

“Oh, yes,” Castiel says with a nod. “I’ve met her.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

Dean takes a long breath. “Cas, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” Castiel’s hands touch Dean’s hands, spinning warmth into them,  then slide up his arms to his shoulders. His eyes silently ask permission the whole time.

“This was a sacrament, sure. But is that all it was? Were you — I don’t know, were you scared? Did you think, maybe—”

“I was petrified,” Castiel says readily. “Dean, I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted you to leave, for your sake. So you had a chance. But I didn’t know what I’d do without you.” He blinks, and a tear falls down his cheek. “I walked up those stairs, Dean, thinking I was alone again, and I felt so betrayed, so empty inside— I thought to myself, maybe I didn’t know him as well as I thought. Maybe I could have done something different— and now that you’re here, I’m still petrified. Of what happens next. What happens when—”

His gaze drops, and tears stain the floor between their feet. Dean looks down, sees the small dark stain on the carpet there, and sighs. He locks his arm around Castiel’s shoulder and tugs him in for a tight, long, wordless hug.

“Cas, you know what I was doing when you came home?” he whispers into the top of Castiel’s bent-forward head, depositing soft kisses there between words.

A shaky whisper answers him. “I saw. You were hanging… you were hanging up clothes.”

“You know why I was doing it here? Not in the other room?” Castiel shakes his head. “Because this is our room. I don’t belong in that bedroom out there, and I don’t belong in any other house but this one.  This is home.” Dean kisses his head one more time. “You’re home.”

“Dean…” Castiel’s voice breaks. His shoulders shake, and Dean can feel the day’s tension pouring out with his tears. What it must be like to be Cas, he thinks. How much he must feel as though he’s struggling every day with forces beyond his control. Heaven. Hell. Fate. Love. Humans, for better or for worse, grow up and grow old fighting them; Cas has thought he was their servant, and he’s just now learning that he may have to switch sides.

“Whatever happens,” Dean says, “I’m in this to the end with you, Cas. I told you that a long time ago and I still mean it.”

Castiel nods. He pulls back to wipe his eyes, then looks at Dean, lips trembling around a question, or a request — something he wants to say. “What is it?” Dean asks.

Castiel’s mouth turns up briefly, shyly. “Would you,” he says, and pauses to swallow before starting again. “Would you say it one more time?”

It takes Dean a minute to realize what he’s talking about, but when he gets it, he has to smile.

He leans in, so close, until their skin is buzzing together. And he seals the words into Castiel’s mouth, so Cas can taste them, swallow them. Make them part of him forever.

“I love you.”


	36. Part Thirty-Three

“I love you.”

Like a prayer, like a chant… over and over.

“Again.” Pleading.

“Cas.” Mouth against his ear. Tugging. Pressing into the skin just behind.

“Please, Dean.”

Laughing now. The sound vibrating into his skin. “I told you three times in the past ten seconds.”

“I don’t care.” Fingers tighten on Dean’s shoulder blades.

And Dean gives in and says it again. “I love you.”

 

  
He has a lot of making up to do for all the time he hasn’t said it. He’s known it for a long, long time, too, and it hasn’t been fair, keeping it to himself all this time. So however many times Cas needs to hear it, he’ll say it now. He’s done; he’s over the edge. He officially loves Cas so much he’d give up anything for him. Has given up everything for him, and even so can only feel like he came out with the better deal.

Because what could be better than this? The slow long kisses and the way they sink onto the bed, synchronized, popping buttons and peeling off clothes. The way Cas’s lips part under his, soft, giving. The desperate cling of tight fingers to the skin of Dean’s back, the rake of dull nails along his spine. The knowledge that above and around them, Dean’s things lie and hang along with Cas’s, this room finally completely theirs, this space shared. All of it. It resonates in Dean’s soul, fills him up with wonder and wholeness. This is where he’s meant to be.

But that doesn’t mean he’s not turned on, isn’t half out of his mind with want. Because Cas’ body sliding against his is impossibly soft and warm, hard muscles and gentle flesh, and Dean hears himself making whimpering noises as Cas’ mouth trails down his throat, teeth barely grazing the hollow there before a wet tongue licks its way back up, salving the burn. And he’s never been able to do anything but buck and whimper when Cas’s hands travel down below the waist, cupping his ass and kneading the firm flesh there, catching briefly at his hipbones and easing him forward so they can move together. His cock and Cas’, hard but drowning in a sea of heat that seems to well up liquid between them, making them move like waves together.

He rolls onto his back, pulls Cas onto him, cupping his face with both hands and kissing him leisurely. He could do this all night long, just revel in the way their mouths fit together, the soft-on-soft push and pull of their lips. Cas is savage sometimes the way he kisses, his teeth coming out, his mouth so hard and unrelenting that Dean’s left wheezing in air through his nose, then panting afterward. Dean wants that now, wants to go from unbearable heat to out-and-out fire, and his hands slide backward to the nape of Cas’ neck, pulling him in to Dean’s wanting, opening mouth.

But Cas won’t give. He’s measured, tentative almost, and he pulls back too quickly, making Dean crane upward to get more contact and more of the taste of him. And every time Dean whines with need, Cas just whispers, “Say it again,” and now the words are coming through swollen, desperate lips — _loveyou Cas loveyou i love you please_ — and Dean’s shaking with want. His legs spread, trying to force Cas closer, to get the thick hard burn of Cas inside him, some resolution to the interminable want blazing through his body.

“We have all night,” Cas murmurs. “I want it to last all night.”

“I won’t last another minute, Cas…” Almost a whine, the kind of noise Dean should be ashamed of.

“Dean.” Cas kisses his eyelids, the tip of his nose. “Dean, I want to be with you all night. Please.”

And damn him, Dean groans and murmurs assent.

They lie side by side, breathing hard, trying to tamp down on the cords of desire running tight and luminous through their bodies. One of Dean’s hands rests on Castiel’s waist, the other tucked behind his own head, and he waits to see how Castiel wants to do this. And for a while, Castiel doesn’t do anything — just lies there, staring, and the intensity of his gaze gives Dean the impression he could reach over and touch at any moment, a sense that keeps the want hot and anxious between them.

His lips are trembling, and Castiel reaches out and trails a finger across them, tracing their shape. Dean purses his mouth, trying to suck, to nip, but Castiel won’t let him. He pulls back, and sound breaks from Dean’s suddenly neglected mouth. He flinches. The lack of touch hurts like a blow.

“Dean,” Castiel says, his voice dark and burning. Dean’s never been so turned on by just the sound of his name.

Castiel reaches out again, traces the shape of Dean’s lips, and this time Dean manages to lie slack, just being touched. It’s not something he’s good at. He has always learned that when something’s done to you, you have to do something back.

The finger trails off his lips and onto his cheek. Castiel’s other fingers join the first, stroking gently. Dean breathes quicker. Don’t move, he tells himself, though his only urge is to turn his head, nuzzle into Cas’ hand. The shallow rasp of his breaths echoes inside his skull.

Castiel’s thumb catches the inside of his lower lip. Swipes along the wetness there. His palm hooks under Dean’s jaw, presses. Dean thinks he hears Castiel’s breath hitch.

Dean closes his eyes, tries to say something, anything. His mouth curls around Castiel’s thumb in the shape of a word he never gets out. Instead, he dares to sweep his tongue around the soft pad of Castiel’s thumb. No warning word comes from Castiel, no withdrawal. Either Dean’s being rewarded for keeping control, or Castiel’s starting to lose his. Doesn’t matter much which.

Castiel leans in and kisses Dean again, as soft and tentative as the other kisses. Dean lets him take his time, doesn’t press forward demanding more, and when Castiel is done, he draws back, breathing harder and red-faced.

“I don’t know if—” he says, and takes a shuddering breath in. “I don’t know how to tell you what I want, Dean.”

And there is something he wants — it’s shining like a golden ring inside his eyes, and if it’s the frigging moon Dean will jump out the window in his birthday suit and pull it down for him.

“Just tell me,” he says, his mouth moving in blank air but already imagining the taste of Cas all over.

But Castiel shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“Then show me,” Dean says, and, groaning, Castiel pulls him close again.

Castiel’s so hot, body ready and human against Dean’s, and despite what he said about making it last all night he’s rolling his hips up impatiently. Still, when Dean looks at him, he stays silent, eyes wide but head slowly shaking no.

Dean takes control, pressing his hands against Castiel’s shoulders and easing him down onto the sheets. “In that case, give me a little of what I want first,” he says, and lowers his mouth to Castiel’s skin.

He licks his way down Castiel’s throat, nuzzles his chest, and fixes his mouth around one nipple. Castiel twitches beneath him, his moans broken and loud as they fill the room. Crouching over Castiel’s body like this, Dean can feel the hard jut of Castiel’s cock full against his thigh, and it throbs with each shift of Castiel’s weight and moan he lets out. The feel of it makes Dean grin, and he keeps licking downward, so ready to taste.

All of Castiel’s control seems gone now, and when Dean’s lips close around the head of his dick Castiel shouts aloud and arches upward, cock sliding upward past the ring of Dean’s lips and deep into his mouth. Surprised, but undeterred, Dean opens wide to let him in, groaning and humming satisfaction at the weight and warmth on his tongue. Castiel tosses his head from side to side on the pillow. He shouts anew with every wash of Dean’s tongue, every hollowing out of Dean’s cheeks as he sucks hard and then eases off. Fingers dig into Dean’s scalp, pull at his hair, and the bed creaks under the force of Castiel’s thrashing.

“Dean… Dean… Dean! Wait, stop! Oh, oh God…”

Dean eases off as the pulling becomes a solid yank. Castiel pants hard.”Stop… stop… wait,” he breathes. “Stop. Too much, too good. I can’t—” He seems ready to burst into tears. Dean rises quickly to his hands and knees and hovers over him, afraid.

But when Castiel opens his squeezed-shut eyes again, he smiles. “You are so— so good,” he murmurs. “I never thought it would feel like this. In all my years of watching humans, I couldn’t have imagined.”

“Pretty awesome, huh?” Dean grins, trying to ease the tension a little. His own hard-on is painful, but he’s gotten good at ignoring it.

“Dean,” Castiel says. Soft. His eyes are misty. “Lie on your back for me.”

Like a good angelic husband, Dean obeys.

He’s already aching inside. Castiel doesn’t usually make him wait so long to get fucked. But the two of them are like horny teenagers sometimes, completely enamored of each other and unable to show any patience — so maybe, Dean thinks as he settles down onto the bed and spreads his legs, maybe this is them finally growing up. Leaning to stretch things out a little more. Just so long as Castiel doesn’t keep him waiting much longer. He’s actually had to swipe a finger or two against his own hole a few times, just to ease the wanting ache there.

Castiel reaches for the lube. It’s about time. They need to be together. To be complete. Dean waits for the slick touch of his fingers.

It never comes. And when Dean realizes what’s going on, Castiel’s already straddling him.

The question comes to his lips, but Castiel speaks first. “What I want,” he says, and arches into his own fingers. His other hand splays out like a star on Dean’s chest, holding himself up as he slicks himself.

Dean’s eyes widen. “I thought you couldn—”

The hand on Dean’s chest rises suddenly and claps over his mouth instead. “Dean,” Castiel says, warning. There’s almost panic in his eyes.

Dean nods and lifts his hands to cup Castiel’s ass, supporting him as Cas works on his own fingers, carefully. It’s amazing to watch, and terrifying, and Dean has to wonder why now, why after everything, and why it can’t be spoken aloud. How much of what they say to each other is heard, and by whom?

But then Castiel is leaning forward, kissing Dean’s mouth, both hands cupping his jaw. And the feeling of that wipes Dean’s mind. A little slick from the lube on Castiel’s fingers trickles down Dean’s neck, making him shiver.

“All right?” Castiel asks.

Dean nods. “Anything you want.”

Castiel sinks down onto him inch by inch. Dean groans, eyes rolling up into his head. He’d almost forgotten what this felt like — to have another person around him and against him, the feeling of filling instead of being filled. It’s hot tight madness, and he groans and grabs Castiel’s hips, trying to jackhammer up into him too fast, aiming for completion. Castiel groans, pain on the edges of the sound, and it calms Dean down.

“Sorry,” he says. “Sorry, I’ll go slow.”

Castiel nods. His eyes are blurry with tears, but the look on his face tells Dean he doesn’t want to stop.

More carefully now, Dean lifts his hips and guides Castiel’s down to meet them. They stay locked together, unmoving, for a minute at least. Dean knows what it’s like — Castiel’s getting used to the feeling, waiting until the intensity and discomfort fades into a steady slow heat. So he watches Castiel carefully, waits until he’s tried to move a few times and found an angle that’s comfortable. Then he presses up into it, intensifying the connection, and the groan that rumbles from Castiel’s throat then is pure pleasure.

It’s the first time all over again. The same slow experimentation, the same jerky fumblings to find a rhythm. But when Castiel’s eyes narrow and he moans with something between nerves and discomfort, Dean reaches up to touch his face and whispers, “Love you, Cas,” and it eases them back into synch again. Dean’s hand trails down from Castiel’s face to his chest and stomach, then wraps around his cock, and he holds himself steady as Castiel finds a way to buck into his hand.

Castiel speeds up, beginning to plunge onto Dean’s cock with abandon. He wants more, Dean can tell. Dean’s other hand locks around Castiel’s hip as he starts to move again. Now it’s good, now it’s natural, and they’re both rocking instinctively in the same rhythm. Dean’s eyes sweep over Castiel’s body. On top of Dean, arching and rocking, throat vibrating with the force of each moan. And sweat trickling down his skin, chest rising and falling with pants of breath. He’s the most singularly beautiful thing Dean’s ever seen.

Dean loses himself, pumping upward as his orgasm washes through him. His cock pulses inside Castiel, and everything goes white before his eyes.

He’s almost ashamed at how quickly he’s come. Especially after Castiel said he wanted to last all night. But when his vision returns, he can see a spatter of white on his own stomach, and Castiel’s wavering over him, trying to keep from collapsing. And Dean has to laugh. Neither of them could hold back, not after all that.

“Cas,” he murmurs, opening his arms, and Castiel slides down onto him.

His body catches and slips on the come that pools on Dean’s stomach. “I’m making a mess,” he murmurs, his voice a low buzz vibrating into Dean’s neck.

“It’s a good mess.” Dean chuckles, pulling Castiel in as close as he can get him. “That was amazing, Cas. God, you were amazing.”

Castiel nods, his head bobbing against Dean’s shoulder. “It was all I hoped it would be.”

“Why?” Dean wonders. “Why’d you want that, after everything?”

Castiel rises up, folds his arms over Dean’s chest and rests his chin where they meet. “You gave me something today I had hoped for since the moment I met you,” he says. “I wanted to give you something back.”

“But I was good with things as they were,” Dean says, still bewildered. “I mean, doesn’t it make you, I don’t know— less pure or something?”

“You have never made me anything but better,” Castiel says, and there’s a small, secret smile on his face that makes Dean’s heart pound. His mind can’t process the meaning of it, though, and he just leans back, closing his eyes.

Castiel kisses at his shoulder. “We’re very near the end now,” he murmurs.

“Hm?” The words don’t compute, not in Dean’s bliss-addled brain.

“Nothing.”  Castiel’s arms unfold, and he curls himself into Dean’s body like a sleepy animal. “Are you going to fall asleep?”

“Shouldn’t I?”

Castiel sighs. “No, you can sleep, Dean.”

The way he says it makes Dean open his eyes and frown. “Cas?”

“Just…” Another long breath. “Just say it one more time. One more time before you sleep.”

“Cas.” Dean pulls him up for a kiss. “I’ll say it twenty times if you want. But even if I’m not saying it, it’s still true. You get that, right?”

“I do,” Castiel nods. “It’s true for me, too.”

“Then good night,” Dean says, “and I love you.”

He closes his eyes. Sleep’s anxious to claim him, but something in him won’t let go until he hears Castiel whisper, “I love you, too.”

Knowing it and hearing it are two different things, he thinks, and hearing it is like seeing sunshine break after a long night.

He falls asleep utterly happy.


	37. Part Thirty-Four

_When the demons have arisen to rule over the earth,_  
 _The angel shall descend to the human realm._  
 _He shall find the One and bind to him._  
 ~~_He shall feed him with the food from his table,_ ~~  
~~_and he shall drink the nectar from his lips._ ~~  
~~_He shall guide him to righteousness_ ~~  
~~_and cleanse him of his transgressions._ ~~  
~~_He shall give him wings to fly_ ~~  
~~_and legs to stand upright upon the earth._ ~~  
~~_He shall bind him in chains_ ~~  
~~_And give to him angelic robes._ ~~  
~~_He shall own his body,_ ~~  
~~_and knock at the doors of his soul._ ~~  
~~_He shall deliver him unto the company of the angels_ ~~  
~~_And cast him into the pit of devils._ ~~  
_And thus the One will rise_  
 _And bring the earthly paradise again._

Dean leans on the refrigerator, whole body leaning on the weight of his one extended arm, and stares at the verse. As far as he can tell they’ve done twelve of them. Which means the thirteenth and final will be today. He just can’t figure out what it is. Except for the introductory and final lines, they’ve covered everything in the poem. So whatever Number 13 is, it’s not here.

Maybe it’s so sacred it can’t be written down. Maybe it’s the offering-up that Castiel talked about when Dean was a hanger-on in his memories. It could be anything. From some horrific torture session to a dip in the ocean. He’s already flown, why not swimming, too? Maybe he’ll grow gills.

He knows one thing for sure: he’s not scared. He can’t be. He’s given himself wholly to this whole process — to Cas, to whatever awaits them, even to destiny. It’s way too late to be scared. They’ll deal with it, together.

Castiel has come downstairs — Dean heard the creaking of the floorboards as he made his way down the hall to the kitchen — and now he comes up behind Dean and wraps his arms around him. “Good morning,” he murmurs, pressing himself warm and solid against Dean’s back.

Dean turns in his arms, gathers him up in an embrace, and kisses him softly. “Morning,” he murmurs into the kiss, and then tightens the hug and just stays there awhile. He thinks he can feel Castiel tremble in his arms. “You OK?” he asks. “Bad dream? Sorry I didn’t stay in bed, I just wanted to get up.”

“No,” Castiel says, “I’m fine. You’re here, so I’m fine.”

It’s not so comforting an answer, but if nothing else, they need to feel comforted for a while, so Dean says nothing.

They eat breakfast together, talking about nothing in particular, watching birds skitter across tree branches outside the kitchen window. One of the birds has a nest full of hatchlings, and Dean snorts a little when they open their beaks begging for the worm their mother has brought. “What a bunch of brats,” he jokes. “Here Mom is going through the dirt for them, and all they can say is gimme, gimme.”

“That’s childhood,” Castiel says. “You need your parents to provide for you, and nothing else matters. Babies cry, birds chirp, and we all do our best to get our parents’ attention.”

Dean nods. “Wonder if they care about their siblings, or if they don’t even know who that kid next to them in the nest is.”

“It’s a rare animal who sees his brother as anything but competition for food,” Castiel says. “Some of the more advanced social species do form sibling bonds, but I think humans are unique in their ability to care for their brothers and sisters. You are a uniquely kind species. I envy you that.”

Vaguely embarrassed, Dean waves the thought away. “Not like you’re Scrooge yourself, dude. You care.”

Castiel smiles at him. “I have learned from the best,” he says.

After breakfast, they do the dishes, Castiel washing and Dean drying, and it feels like they’re playing house, like they’re a pair of blissful newlyweds. Dean’s disappointed when the last glass is put away and they have no more reason to keep standing a few feet apart, sharing kisses and dumb grins. He hangs the dishtowel from the ring on the wall and shifts from foot to foot, waiting for something else to happen.

Nothing. Castiel’s silent. Dean glances at him.

“Well?” he says. “What’s next?”

Castiel sighs. “I suppose there’s no use delaying it.”

“Is this sacrament going to be that bad?” Dean asks.

Castiel starts. “Sacrament?”

“Yeah. We’ve done twelve, right? So this is gonna be unlucky thirteen. I’m ready, Cas. Bring it.”

And Castiel’s face sobers. “Dean,” he says slowly. “There are no more sacraments. You’ve completed all thirteen.”

Dean’s heart thuds in his chest. He tries to speak. Nothing comes out. Castiel stares at him morosely.

He moves to the refrigerator, pulls the poem from beneath its magnet. “Wait, help me out here,” he says, his voice sounding taut and manic in his own ears. “So we did the feeding, and the nectar, and the guiding to righteousness…” He counts the number of lines again. “That’s twelve. What’s the thirteenth?”

Castiel opens a drawer and picks up a pen from inside. Slowly, he slides the paper out from under Dean’s fingers and draws a careful line through the words,

_He shall find the One and bind to him._

“Our marriage itself,” he says, “was the first sacrament.”

Dean’s jaw hangs open. He doesn’t know how he could have missed that before. The first sacrament, their meeting. And he remembers the strange feeling the first time they joined hands…

> _He reaches out, slides his hands into Castiel’s, and a shock of warmth assaults his fingertips, like that glowing aura is spreading to him. It travels up his arms, to his shoulders, and for an instant there are not two people in the room, there is one. Dean and Castiel. Latched together hand-to-hand, alight with the same radiance._  
>   
>  _Then it’s gone again. Their flesh is just flesh where it touches._

  
That had been the binding. The very first sacrament. And now it seems completely obvious.

“We’ve done all of them,” he says dumbly. “We’re done. I’m— I’m the One.”

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel says. “You are.”

And at once it’s so ridiculous as to be laughable. “Why me?” he says, mouth stretching into a manic grin. “I’m nothing, Cas, I’m nobody. All I am is some kid from Kansas with a sick little brother and a farmhouse that got attacked by demons…” The grin dies. Suddenly it all seems like part of a pattern. The world grabbed him by the balls at grade-school age, threw him headfirst into a pit of demons and despair, and now he finds himself in the cross hairs of angels. He can’t think of anything he could have done to make it happen differently. Not a decision he wouldn’t have made, even knowing what was to come.

Maybe that’s what makes him the One. But what does being the One mean?

“What happens now, then?” Dean says. He reaches out and takes Cas’s hand, squeezes it tight. Now he’s the one that’s shaking.

“I don’t know,” Castiel says. “We need to go to Uriel’s. His superior will be there. My superior, as well. He will know the next steps.”

“I don’t like Uriel,” Dean says, his lip curling.

Castiel looks askance at him. “Then you definitely won’t like Zachariah,” he says.

* * *

Actually, at first glance, Dean likes Zachariah a lot. Mostly that’s because Zachariah’s face lights up like a Christmas tree when he sees Dean, and because he looks like a bald Santa as it is, all rotund. Dean’s kind of surprised there are no reindeer following him around. He’s also pretty sure he’s seen this guy in Castiel’s memories before, but only briefly. So Cas was getting instructions from his boss. And Zachariah completely exudes the aura of middle management.

“Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean,” he enthuses, arms wide as he walks through Uriel’s living room and embraces Dean.

“That’s— urgh— my name,” Dean says, struggling in Zachariah’s iron grip. When he’s let go, he has to take a few deep breaths to get his equilibrium back. “Careful, it’s the only one I’ve got.”

“Dean,” Zachariah says one more time, patting his shoulder hard and holding him at arm’s length. “What a find you are. You’re a treasure, a prize. I can’t tell you how happy I am to finally meet you.” He keeps shaking his head as though he can’t quite believe it, and if nothing else, Dean feels sought-after. He casts his eyes at Castiel, who shrugs and shakes his own head in utter perplexity.

“And Castiel. Well done, Castiel! I see big things for you in the future. Bumped up from Thursday duty, that’s for sure. Eastern Seaboard, perhaps? Maybe they’ll let you on disease duty. I’ve always wanted to have control of a cancer or two, myself.” Castiel looks suitably horrified.

“All right. So all thirteen, checked off the list? For sure?” Castiel nods. “Then I suppose I’d better give our counterparts a call and see how things are going with them. Something tells me we’re about to take a ride.” He strolls elsewhere, pulls out a cell phone and chats. The minutes tick away. Dean and Castiel stand a few feet apart, nervous, completely lost at what appears to be a bureaucratic next step to an angelic myth in the making. It’s definitely not what Dean pictured.

And just as he’s about to comment to Cas as much, he’s stopped cold.

_I told you you’d be mine._

No. Not now. Not with Cas right there in front of him. Dean blinks hard, thinking he can banish the voice by wishing hard enough. But it creeps around him like mist, a whisper with a note of menace, and it won’t go away.

_You and I are going to meet very soon now, Dean. Now that we are sure you’re the one, it’s only a matter of time._

Dean turns to Cas. “Do you hear that?” he says. “Can you hear that?”

_You know he can’t. And you won’t scare me away by asking him about me. You’ll both be making my acquaintance soon. I am so excited, Dean. Our fate is finally coming together. I’m only sorry about what you’ll have to see first. But remember, when you think all is lost, I will be here to save you. And once you accept me, we will go forth together and make everything right again._

“Who the hell are you?” Dean shouts. He doubles over as the mistlike presence seems to paint the world over in gray.

Castiel gasps and moves forward. Dean sees him as though a distant shadow, and he thinks it’s the voice, isn’t sure what’s real and what’s not. He clutches his head with two taut hands, fixing his eyes on the figure that might be Cas and might be something else. “Damn it! Who are you? Why are you in my head?”

Uriel stares, Castiel utters Dean’s name. They’re both terrified, and their fear is compounding, echoing off Dean’s own. Everything feels cold and awful. He thinks he’s going to faint.

Zachariah strolls back into the room, sees Dean clutching his head, sees Castiel and Uriel both staring in horror. He flips his phone closed and deposits it neatly into his pocket. “I see everyone’s in touch,” he says gaily. “Good to know things are moving along nicely.”

His casual tone is bizarre enough to make Dean drop his hands and stare at him incredulously. Cas runs to him, holds him up, but the real world is solidifying around him, the mist of the voice clearing up in its absence. He takes a few deep breaths, steadies himself, and manages to stand up straight.

“Feeling better?” Zachariah says, tilting his head to the side. “Good. Let’s all pile in the car, then, shall we?”

“The car?” Dean peers at him. His head is still pounding, but at least he can stand up without help. “Where are we going?”

Zachariah gives one more banal grin. “We’re going home, Dean. To see your family.”


	38. Part Thirty-Five

Well. This is awkward.

The car bounces along, Zachariah in the driver’s seat, Uriel beside him, with Castiel and Dean together in the back seat. The radio is playing some sort of 50’s singsong nonsense, and Zachariah’s head is bobbing forward as though in his mind he’s auditioning for a doo-wop group. A few snatches of off-key song make their way from his lips.

Dean doesn’t know what to feel, besides awkward. All this secrecy, all this forced isolation, and now they’re taking him home? At least he’s gonna get to see Sam and his folks again. Which is awesome. And a piece of him is relieved, and excited. But he also doesn’t want Sam to get dragged into any of this sacrament business. Whatever it is they want Dean to do, he’ll do it, but not if it means endangering the very people he went into this trying to protect.

He’s starting to wonder, though, if this wasn’t the plan from the beginning. All the husbands, after all, had brothers.

He glances at Castiel, who looks at him with half-confused, half-mournful eyes. Castiel’s hand finds his, and they tangle their fingers together. The only thing they’re sure of right now is each other. And that just has to be enough.

Dean’s fears ratchet up into panic at the first sight of the farmhouse. What if it’s all been a big lie? What if Sam is sicker than ever, or what if he’s already —

God, no, he can’t think that. It’d just about kill him to think he’d come here, done all he’s done, in vain. But he’s expecting the other shoe to drop any minute now, and he’s already managed to steal love and happiness from a situation that was supposed to be his great sacrifice. Fate is just capricious enough to consider what he’s found with Cas worthy of punishment.

But all his fears drain away in another second when he sees the figure in front of the front door waiting for him.

Standing in front of the front door.

He catches his breath, pushes his face against the window and squints, blinks to make sure it’s not a mirage.

It’s not. It’s Sam. Sam standing. Outside. Looking strong, not leaning on anything.

Sam, _well._

Dean’s throat constricts, and he lets out a strangled noise. The car’s not even completely stopped before he’s opened the door and thrown himself out onto the sidewalk. He lands on his hands and knees, scrambles to his feet, and runs full-tilt up the hill to the porch steps.

It’s still Sam. He’s still there, grinning. Looking strong and healthy and not fading as Dean gets closer.

“Sammy,” Dean manages to half-say, and then the word is crushed in the muscled press of Sam’s shoulders as they embrace.

They’ve barely ever hugged like they’re doing now — Sam’s always been in bed, reaching up to put his hands around Dean’s shoulders, and Dean’s had to lean down, even after Sam grew to an ungodly height. But Sam could pick Dean up right now if he wanted, and the squeeze of his arms very nearly chokes off Dean’s breath.

Sam’s gotten strong. Built. He doesn’t just feel healthy, he feels like he’s spent hours in the gym every day. Maybe he has. Maybe he’s just that much better. Dean’s never been so glad he took the chance on marrying. If this is what the angels were able to do for Sam, it’s so much more than he could have ever hoped for.

Dean holds him at arm’s length. “Look at you,” he says, sounding like somebody’s dumb middle-aged aunt and not caring. “Jesus, Sammy, look at you.”

“Hey, Dean,” Sam says. His grin is infectious. It always has been.

Dean can’t help but go on stating the obvious. “Sam, you — you’re well, you’re up and about.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, side-eying him, “yeah, I know.”

“How? I mean, who cares how, but how?”

“It’s a crazy story. Wait till you hear.” Sam pats his shoulder. “Damn, I’ve missed you, Dean! You look good. You look happy. I’m so glad.”

“I am,” Dean says with a grin. “That’s a pretty frigging crazy story, too, but I’m damn happy, Sammy. We’re gonna have a lot to talk about.” He looks around. “Where are Mom and Dad?”

“Um.” Sam looks down briefly. “About that, Dean.”

Joy spirals down to dread. Dean’s dizzy from the mood whiplash. “Sam?”

“Ahem. This is all very touching. A Kodak moment, if you will.”

Sam’s gaze snaps away. Dean turns. Zachariah and Uriel are standing behind him; Zachariah’s the one who’s spoken, and he quirks his lips and cocks his head expectantly. Castiel lingers a few paces behind them, looking sheepish.

“Dean, who is—” Sam looks at Zachariah a moment. His face fills with horror. “Oh my God, is that your—”

“No! God, no,” Dean cuts him off, trying not to gag at the very thought. It’s terrifying to think how easily this whole thing could have gone in a very different direction.

But it didn’t, and he smiles as he looks past Zachariah at Castiel. Castiel answers his smile, and in Dean’s peripheral vision he can see Sam’s eyes light up with recognition.

“So, yeah, uh, Sam,” he starts, waving Castiel forward.

Too slow. Sam’s launching himself from the porch, catching Castiel in a big, warm handshake before he can make it to the porch steps. “Thank you,” he says, pumping Castiel’s hand. “Thank you so much. Really. It’s so nice to meet you.” His other hand claps on Castiel’s shoulder, and he’s glowing so hard that if Dean didn’t know Cas so well, he might just start to get jealous.

He comes between them, pats them both on the shoulder with two outstretched hands. “Cas, Sam. Sam, this is Castiel.”

“Sam Winchester.” The pleased look on Castiel’s face one Dean’s seen many times before, and he never gets tired of it. “It’s a pleasure to see you looking well.”

“Yes, yes, a pleasure, yada yada, can we get this show on the road?”

All three of them turn. Zachariah is standing, hands folded over his chest, looking like he’s watching a fly and just waiting for his turn with the swatter. “We’ve been looking for you peons for ages. I myself had to fly in from Atlanta, and when I say my wings are tired, that’s no joke.” He shrugs, and the smile he gives is not a nice one. “So, not feeling too patient with all this lovey-dovey stuff. We’ve got bigger fish to fry, boys.” He points at Sam. “Mind inviting us in?”

* * *

  
They’re sitting around the kitchen table. The house is fresh-smelling, clean and empty. Dean wonders again where his parents are. But Sam doesn’t look worried, and there are three sets of breakfast dishes in the sink. Maybe they’ve just stepped out for a while. Dean means to ask one more time.

But Sam is still busy thanking Castiel over and over. He’s fascinated by him, grinning like an idiot and saying “So you’re Dean’s husband, huh? You’d better be taking good care of him.”

Uriel shifts in his chair, looking like he’s ready to throw down. Zachariah calms him with a glare.

“I’m doing my best,” Castiel says, and Dean slides his hand over to cover Castiel’s, squeezing it.

“So, uh, Sammy. You said it was a crazy story how you got well. Tell me what happened, dude.”

“It’s the most amazing thing,” Sam says. “The angels were here, too. The angels have been taking care of me, just like they promised. The demons don’t attack anymore. We’re totally safe. And the angels cured me.”

“How?”

Sam grins. “Get this. With their blood.”

Dean frowns, his mouth popping open.

“Isn’t that crazy? It’s like, angel blood cancels out the demon blood. So they started giving me infusions, little by little. But it only took me a few days to be ready to get up, and within a few weeks I felt totally strong. I mean, look at me.” Sam looks down at his own body in amazement, giving a small laugh. “The more they give me, the stronger I get. My body, and my mind, too. The other day I did the Times crossword in a half-hour.”

“So, wait,” Dean says, his voice a croak. Dread is creeping like a dark thing across the bottom of his heart. “They’re still giving you angel juice?”

“Well, yeah,” Sam says, shrugging. “But it’s not hurting me, Dean. Unless you think it’s a bad thing to be stronger than I’ve ever been. Heck, I’m probably stronger than you.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say to this, but he isn’t all right with it, either. He glances at Castiel, a _did-you-know-about-this?_ question in his eyes. Castiel looks back with a lost expression.

Meanwhile, Zachariah keeps checking his watch. “I really don’t know what could be the delay,” he complains. “They should be here any minute. This is just typical of that sort, that they’d keep us waiting on a day like today.”

Uriel rolls his eyes. “You can’t expect much more from—”

“Uriel,” Zachariah says sharply. Uriel’s jaw snaps shut.

It’s all very cryptic. And Dean’s worries are spiraling out of control. So far, for the grand finale of the thirteen-sacrament marathon they’ve been running, this is underwhelming. He’d imagined some sort of ritual with candles and anointing oil or something equally kinky, but sitting in his family’s farmhouse with an angel looking at his wristwatch is definitely not what he imagined. At least Sam’s a pleasant surprise. If only Dean wasn’t so worried about what surprise might be still in the offing.

A motor growls outside, and Zachariah looks up, pleased. Sam smiles. “That must be them,” he says. “The angels who treated me. Maybe you already know them?” He casts a glance at Castiel, who shakes his head. 

But Zachariah’s on his feet and striding toward the door. “Well, well, well. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he says as it opens and two women stride into the house.

The first is regal, with long blonde hair and a proud expression, like something out of a fairy tale. She nods at Zachariah and speaks with a note of disdain. “So impatient. We had errands to run, you silly man. You should learn patience.”  
  
Sam smiles warmly and gets up. “Dean, these are the angels I was talking about. It’s because of them I’m better. Let me introduce you—”  
  
But Dean’s on his feet. His fists are clenched at his side. He doesn’t know this first lady, but the other one he recognizes. He’s seen her in Castiel’s memories.  
  
Her name is Meg, and she’s a demon.


	39. Part Thirty-Six

“Sam, that’s no angel.”

The words ring out in the room like the toll of a bell. Dean’s eyes shift toward the kitchen counter, and he makes a lunge for the canister of salt sitting there.

Sam grabs his arm, panicking. “Dean? Wait, Dean, stop. That’s Meg, she—”

Dean fights him, but Sam really has gotten stronger, and Dean backs off, staring daggers at his brother. “I know her, Sammy. She’s a demon.”

“They’re both demons,” Castiel says quietly from behind them. “And I’ve never seen one like her before.”

  
He nods at the tall blonde, who is now shaking hands with Zachariah. “Well met,” she says. Her smile is cold as ice. “So nice to get the relatives together on this special occasion.”

“Lilith.” Zachariah’s smile is equally mirthless. “The last time I saw you, you were an eight-year-old. This is a much more appealing vessel. I look forward to ripping its heart out.”

“You sweet-talker,” she says, her words dripping with honey. “I was just about to say the same thing about you. Minus the appealing vessel part, of course.”

“I suppose we’ll see who gets there first.”

Dean watches, paralyzed, as realization swirls in mad circles in his mind. Sam’s been cared for by demons this whole time. And Sam said they’d infused him with blood. Which means Sam’s not cured. The infection is a thousand times worse, and it’s giving him strength that’s not his own.  
  
He remembers watching Sam starting to gain muscle even as he’d lain in bed. Those nightmares Sam had, the dreams, the visions of things that hadn’t happened yet. They were all just beginning when Dean left home to be married to Castiel. And now that Sam’s getting regular infusions of demon blood, God knows what could be happening to him. The strength could just be the tip of the iceberg. Maybe he’s gone full-on dark side and just isn’t showing it.  
  
He glances at Sam, half-expecting his eyes to turn black. But Sam just looks as shell-shocked as before.  
  
“They’re demons?” he whispers. He takes an unsteady step backward.  
  
Lilith cocks her head and looks over Zachariah’s shoulder. “Don’t look now,” she says, her smile never flagging, “but I think we’ve been found out.” For an instant, her eyes white out completely. Dean hears Sam’s gasp.  
  
Meg’s eyes slide into blackness, and she grins. “Well, now. If it isn’t my favorite angel. Long time no see, baby doll.” Castiel coughs.  
  
Dean’s starting to burn with anger. He trusted Cas, gave him power over Sam’s life, and Cas delivered him right into the mouth of the demons Dean had spent his lifetime fighting off. If it weren’t for the imminent danger of angels and demons under the same roof, he’d probably lose his balance. He turns to Castiel, panicked. “Cas, tell me what the hell is going on here.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Castiel says. “I never expected this.”  
  
“Bull. You knew. You had to know.”  
  
“Don’t blame him, champ,” Zachariah says, facing them. “Information on this operation was disseminated on a purely need-to-know basis. Castiel was told what he needed to know. He performed the sacraments, he got you ready.”  
  
Dean scowls. “Ready for what?”  
  
“For us,” Lilith says. “Of course, it wasn’t just you.” She moves across the room to Sam, who’s standing shell-shocked and terrified. “And haven’t we pumped you up just right, Sam.”  
  
“Get your hands off of him,” Dean snaps. Lilith trails a hand up Sam’s arm, unfazed, until Sam jerks it away. He’s trembling, body drawn taut as a wire, looking helplessly from Lilith to Dean and back again, unsure what to say or do.  
  
“Somebody had better explain just what the hell is going on here,” Dean says in a low growl, “or I’m walking out that door.”  
  
“Allow me,” Zachariah says. He’s drawn himself up to his full height, which isn’t much, but still manages to give the impression he’s looking down his nose at Dean and the rest. “It’s a story you already know, in fact. It’s the story of heaven and hell, and how a race of half-breed weaklings descended from apes managed to take control of the Promised Land while their superiors were exiled to other planes.  
  
“It’s the story of how we’ve lived for millennia locked outside the beauty of God’s creation, only to watch it trampled on, torn up by you stupid, warlike pissants who can’t seem to tell your nose from your tailbone. We are glorious creatures, messengers of God’s purpose and His wrath, and you get the beauty and the glory of earth to yourselves? Preposterous.”  
  
He seems to be blazing, and Dean feels like he can see the aura rising up, red-hot and pulsing with each angered word Zachariah speaks.  
  
“And it’s the story of how the lock finally fell, when the demons came to rule over the earth, and we were set free to walk among you once again. Because no matter how loathsome these soul-sucking scum are—” and he waves a hand at Lilith and Meg— “we have shared with them one dream: that someday the prophecies would come true.”  
  
“The prophecy of the One,” Dean says.  
  
“Yes,” Lilith says, “but that’s only half the story. We demons have our own legend, you know. And our own One.”  
  
“And together that makes two. Two keys to taking back this planet from your kind,” Zachariah says.  
  
Dean can’t even begin to process this. All he can do is echo the words stupidly. “Two keys?”  
  
“Two brothers,” Lilith says.  
  
“One sanctified by the sacraments of angels,” Zachariah says. “And one corrupted by the seals of demons.”  
  
Dean meets Sam’s eyes, then looks over at Castiel. Cas is shell-shocked, pale, and he’s moving toward Zachariah with a look of shock on his face. “You can’t be. You can’t have him.”  
  
“I can, sweet cheeks, and I will,” Zachariah says. “And his little bro, too. I suppose you didn’t tell him what was going to happen to him if he didn’t meet the requirements, hm? That one way or another, he was going to end up as a vessel.”  
  
Dean’s heart sinks into his stomach. “A vessel?” he says. “You mean, for a demon?”  
  
But he knows better. Because he knows that Castiel is possessing a body, too. And suddenly he knows how that body came to be Cas’s.  
  
“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel says. “I couldn’t bear to tell you.”

And Dean can see it now— in the parts of Castiel’s mind and memory he hadn’t bothered to explore, the story of another man, another husband who’d been brought to an angel, and had failed at a sacrament, and had given his body up to be the vessel for an angel named Castiel. He stares at Castiel, reaches out, wanting to touch him, to be sure that he is who he says he is, that there’s nobody else lingering inside him.

And Castiel moves toward him, lets him touch. “He’s at peace, Dean,” he says quickly. “I let him go a long time ago. I’m… I’m sorry. You must be very disappointed with me.”

“I don’t get it, Cas,” Dean replies. “You just took some guy over?”

“I didn’t know then what I know now,” Castiel says. His eyes blaze quiet fire into Dean’s own. “I don’t know how else to say it, Dean. What I did then, I never would now. That’s because of you.”

Dean can’t do anything but believe him. They know each other too well by now. And the skin that brushes against his fingertips is undoubtedly Castiel’s own. No other soul lives there. And Dean’s no blushing virgin either. For now, that will have to be enough.

Besides, there’s more hiding in Castiel’s eyes than regret. There’s a silent plea. _Trust me_ , it says. _I was never planning on simply giving you up_. Dean doesn’t know what to make of it, but he still can’t help but trust it.

He takes a deep breath. “So that was the master plan, huh?” he says, turning to Zachariah and Uriel. “Pass or fail, you were just gonna give me to some dick with wings and let him ride me for the rest of my life?”  
  
“Longer than that,” Uriel says with a laugh. “Once your body is ours, it’s yours until we’re done with it.”  
  
But now’s not the time to ask about it. Not when Zachariah is spreading his arms wide and laughing. “But Dean, you’re terrifically lucky! You’re not just going to be the vessel for any old angel. You’re the One we’ve been looking for. Which makes you one of the most powerful weapons in the universe.”  
  
“Meaning?”  
  
 _Meaning me._  
  
Dean freezes.  
  
 _I told you, Dean, you would be mine sooner or later._  
  
It doesn’t matter anymore that he’s the only one who can hear it. It doesn’t matter how crazy he sounds. Dean shouts loud enough to shake the rafters. “Who the hell are you?”  
  
The rest of the room is looking at him like he’s gone mad, but Zachariah chuckles. “I see the boss is in touch with you already.”  
  
Dean fixes angry eyes on Zachariah. “Who is he?” he roars. “This dude’s been talking to me for weeks. Won’t shut up. You’re gonna tell me he’s an angel?”  
  
“And not just any angel,” Zachariah says. “The warrior of the heavens, the bringer of justice. I believe you call him Michael.”  
  
 _And it’s so very good to make your acquaintance, finally, Dean._  
  
Michael.  
  
A hundred Bible stories, things that were pressed into his head in Sunday school when the demons had taken over, then things his parents talked about in hushed voices after the angels came. The angels were warriors. And Michael, Michael was the ultimate soldier. He took his sword, the legends said, and cast down Lucifer into the pit…  
  
Lucifer?  
  
Dean’s eyes fly to Sam. In the back of his mind, he can hear Michael chuckling.  
  
Two brothers…  
  
He makes a break for the door. Uriel steps in front of him, stops him. Dean slams against his body and is thrown back, winded. “This wasn’t in the marriage contract,” he says, clutching his stomach. “Nobody said Sam was up for grabs. I’m out.”  
  
“No,” Uriel says, “you’re really not.”  
  
“Then stop me,” Dean says. “Because you’re gonna have to kill me to do that. And then where’s your precious vessel?”  
  
“Oh, sweetie,” Meg says. Her voice is cloying, and it grates against his eardrums like fingernails on a chalkboard. “You really don’t understand the situation you’re in, do you?”  
  
Dean rounds on her, enraged. “What are you going to do?” he demands. “Kill Sam? You need him too, don’t you?”  
  
“How quickly they grow up and forget,” Lilith says. And she casts her eyes to the ceiling.  
  
They’ve been crying out to him mutely, this whole time. Dean just hasn’t seen them. Or they’ve been hidden to him, but now they’re there. Mom and Dad. Pinned there by an invisible hand, silently screaming their shock and pain as flames, ghostly and cold, gather from the corners of the ceiling and light into their bodies.

[Next](http://altarsshine.livejournal.com/10331.html)   



	40. Part Thirty-Seven

Dean’s heart is hammering in his chest, skipping every other beat but coming down twice as hard to make up for it. He’s been missing his parents ever since he left home, and he’s wanted to see them more than anything, but he’d rather go his whole life alone than have to see them like this.

Blue flames dance like wicked creatures on the ceiling. They lick at the hem of his mother’s shirt and leap, sparking, across his father’s face, making him cry out in pain. The cries are silenced, though, as though they’re hidden behind an invisible pane of glass, and the fire seems to spark at Dean in warning, promising to wreak havoc if he should even so much as reach upward. The two of them are just out of reach up there, but there might as well be a universe separating them. Dean’s helpless.

“Let them go,” he says, but his voice is weak. He couldn’t sound intimidating right now if he tried. He’s terrified.

“That’s not happening,” Uriel says.

Sam’s shaking. “And you call yourselves angels?”

Zachariah laughs. “We call ourselves men on a mission, Sam. Don’t worry, this can all be over soon. It just depends on how well you play along.”

Bile, bitter and obstinate, rises in Dean’s throat. He does his best to swallow it down, but his voice comes out throaty and choked anyway. “What do you want us to do?”

 

  
“Just let my superior in,” Zachariah says, shrugging. “He’s been knocking, Dean. Or haven’t you noticed?”

Oh, Dean’s noticed. Dean’s had this voice in his head for far too long, telling him far too many things, and Dean wants nothing more than to shut him out. He doesn’t want an angel riding around inside him, he doesn’t want to lose control of himself, and he definitely doesn’t want these angels to fulfill their prophecy of “paradise on earth.” It sounds dangerously close to “kill all the humans” for his taste.

But he doesn’t want to watch his parents burn to death right above his head, either. He looks up, sees his mother twist, sees his father’s lips twitch, form a circle. Close, open again. Dean watches almost hypnotized for several seconds before he realizes there’s a word being formed there.

Dad’s trying to say something.

Dean squints. An O, then a closed mouth… then open — gold? cold?

_Colt._

“Sam,” Dean manages. He grabs Sam by the arm, yanks him in and murmurs to him. “The Colt. Get the Colt.”

Dad nods at him. Message received. Dean turns to the angels. Time to create a distraction.

“So let me get this straight,” he says, looking from Zachariah to Uriel and then to the demons. “You make me jump through a dozen hoops, make me wander around blindfolded and get my ass chained up and let me think I’m gonna die a million times over, so you can get me all ready to play happy hostess to your big brother, and you can’t just take me over? Why am I not talking with Michael’s voice already?”

“It’s the damnedest thing, really,” Zachariah says. “Would you believe that we need your permission?”

Dean frowns. “Come again?”

“Demons can possess just any old weak-willed dumbass,” Meg says with a giggle, “but poor angels, they need your say-so. Including, I might add, Lucifer. So which brother will crack first? Inquiring minds want to know.”

“Bull.” Dean keeps his eyes on Zachariah. “You want me to believe someone had to let you in? This old guy with the spare tire, you came knocking at his door?”

“He was the husband to an angel named Bernard. Strange taste. But the vessel met the initial criteria. Only made it through two or three sacraments, though. Didn’t have the constitution. Broke in the middle of number four.”

Dean glances upward, steals a glance at the doorway. Sam’s made into the other room. So far, so good. “And then he said, I give up, you can ride my ass?”

“Maybe you didn’t hear him,” Uriel says. “He says, the fellow _broke_.”

Dean’s stomach sinks. Now he understands why all the husbands he met at Uriel’s mansion seemed so subdued, would not even talk. The sacraments aren’t just meant to prepare the body. They also break the mind. Make a husband into a subordinate who will say and do anything to stay alive. And not just the sacraments… their whole lives, they must have been terrified of the consequences. It’s not marriage. It’s slow torture.

Even with the panic and the horror that twists his gut, he’s damn grateful that Cas was the angel he got. And he’s doubly grateful because Cas has just seen Sam cock the gun, in the doorway behind where angels and demons stand, and he’s saying nothing.

Dean opens his mouth as if to speak. It’s just to keep their eyes on him. He has nothing left to say.

The gunshot speaks instead.

Lilith wavers and falls, her blonde hair flying into a wide fan beneath her, and the thud of her body on the kitchen floor is a dull, sickening sound. Dean looks up, expecting and praying that the spell will break and Mom and Dad will be set free. But his gaze is ripped away by the sound of Meg’s snicker. And blood drips onto the frozen, satisfied smile that paints the face of Lilith’s corpse.

His gaze turns again to the ceiling. A gash has opened in Mom’s stomach. Her face contorts and her mouth opens in a silent scream as blood gushes down in a waterfall, spattering the floor and the walls. A moment later, the cold blue flames have burst into yellow, live fire. For a bare moment her shriek breaks through the wall of silence. It pierces through Dean’s head, and then the flames have overwhelmed her and she’s gone.

Dean hears the force of his own scream, hears the echoes of Sam’s. His ears throb. Nothing in him can begin to process what he’s just seen, what’s just happened.

It can’t be. They can’t be. She can’t…

The flames recede. Gravity kicks back into action, and two singed bodies fall from the ceiling. One grunts as it lands. The other no longer can.

Sam leaps forward, the Colt dropping to the floor. He trips over Lilith’s body, throws himself down. Dean can’t look. He’s lost. The world has just dropped out from beneath him.

Something in him says move, says survival. Yes, he has to stay alive, the Colt, he has to—

He trips over Sam, who’s collapsed in tears. He moves like a ghost through the room. His fingers close around the Colt. Cold metal in his hands. Something solid. Something frozen. Not even looking now, but he sees a bit of singed fabric float to the ground and land on— on—

on a burnt-out hand—

He can’t even see, the tears are stinging so hot in his eyes, but he points the Colt at Meg anyway.

She laughs and ignores it completely.

“See?” Meg says, coming forward and kneeling on the floor before Sam. She grabs Sam’s chin, forces his head up and squeezes his cheeks with a pincer of a hand. “You can’t say no, Sam. You can’t stop us. You try anything with that gun—” and she gives a sharp look over at Dean— “and Daddy goes bye-bye too. I know you won’t sacrifice him. So just let Lucifer in. All you have to say is yes. And don’t think I don’t know who’s next if you let Daddy die.”

Her eyes go to Castiel. Dean looks around in horror.

“Don’t!” Castiel shouts, but Zachariah and Uriel nod in mute agreement. Their eyes drift over Castiel, and there’s putrid hate in their gaze, less than disdain. Anything and everything is a pawn to them, Dean thinks. His life, his mother’s life, even one of their own. He’s never despised these beings more than he does now.

But what can he do? They killed Mom. They’ll kill Dad. They’ll kill Cas, anything to get them to say yes.

_And better you than your brother,_ Michael whispers at him. _Better the forces of the angels. We can strike him down the moment Lucifer dares take possession of him. Maybe even keep Lucifer out of him permanently. You and you alone can save your brother. That is still true._

The Colt falters in his hand. He doesn’t see any choice, any way out.

_And you will be rewarded, Dean. We can bring her back, undo what the demons have done. All we need to do is strike together, the archangel and his sword, and heaven and earth and hell alike will be our domain. We can raise the dead, we can right the wrongs of centuries. All you need to do is have faith in me._  
  
The word is on his lips. The air has stopped moving in the room. Nothing else matters anymore.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
It doesn’t come from his mouth.  
  
“What was that, Sammy?” Meg murmurs, pressing her ear closer to his mouth. “I didn’t quite catch that…”  
  
“Sam!” Castiel and Dean cry out in unison.  
  
“They’d kill him, Dean,” Sam says softly. He raises his eyes, red-streaked and tired. “Dad. And your husband — you care about him, I can’t… I can’t make you lose him—”  
  
His eyes flash black. Dean shouts.  
  
They clear. “Maybe I can fight him,” Sam says. “Make sure he’ll protect you and Castiel in return for taking me — just, don’t say yes, Dean. Have a life, be happy— Mom would want you t—”  
  
Meg slaps him. “Enough! Just say it again. So he can hear you!”  
  
Sam meets her eyes.  
  
Dean can’t summon the breath fast enough. “Sammy, don’t—”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Loud enough that the house starts to shake. Dean’s knees threaten to give out. He grabs the kitchen counter, holds on tight. How could he have woken up this morning with Cas in his arms, happy, optimistic about the future? What kind of funhouse mirror did he step through without looking, that now he’s in a nightmare version of his old house, corpses littering the floor, the sounds of gunshots ringing in his ears?  
  
And Sam, whom he’d left this house to protect, Sam…  
  
Oh, God. What is happening to Sam?  
  
Gray smoke, filtering up through the floorboards, curls in a slow cone around him. Sam crouches, his body locked tight int a ball, muscles tightening and loosening. His eyes are closed, and every so often his head shakes, sending his hair into a shaggy mess. When he rolls his shoulders back, turns to Dean, and opens his eyes, Dean’s brother’s not behind them.  
  
“That feels better,” he says. He rises, and Dean’s never realized just how damn tall Sam is, how intimidating he could be. Because he’s always been Sam. And this isn’t Sam, and Dean’s stomach is trying to crawl down into his gut and scurry away, he’s so terrified.  
  
“Hm,” he says. “I can smell my brother, but I can’t see my brother.” He peers at Dean. “He’s hanging off you like cheap perfume.” His nose twitches as he makes a show of sniffing hard. “Oh, you’re a good one. Michael will fit in there nicely. Hurry up and say yes. I’m looking forward to a good throwdown.”  
  
His words are meant to taunt, but Dean’s too lost in grief and shock to even pay them much attention. It’s all an awful nightmare. He’ll wake up, he’ll be next to Cas, they’ll have another lazy day together and none of this will have happened.  His brother won’t be looking at him with a stranger’s eyes, his father won’t be pulling himself off the tile and cradling the— the body of his—-  
  
Dean slumps against the counter. His feet give on the floor. He can’t hold himself straight anymore.  
  
Castiel rushes forward, grabs him and folds him up in his arms, and the shock of warmth invites Dean in. He buries his head in Castiel’s shoulder, shaking hard, feeling like his head’s going to cave in. “This can’t have happened,” he whispers. “None of this is happening. It can’t be happening.”  
  
“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel says, and he presses a firm hand to the back of Dean’s head and strokes downward across his hair, over and over. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“This is just—” Dean takes a choked, shaky breath. “It’s just— it can’t—”  
  
 _It can. And it has._  
  
Dean freezes, clutches Castiel’s arms. He takes in another breath, and this one feels cold and jagged in his lungs, but he can’t let it out.  
  
 _I told you I was sorry for what you’d have to see, Dean. But this is why you must let me in. Because now that Lucifer has arisen, only you and I can take him. Michael and his sword. You and I, Dean. Do you know how many more he will kill?_  
  
“You bastard,” Dean seethes. “How the hell can you ask anything of me? It’s your fault this whole thing’s happened. You and your goddamn sacraments and your goddamn secrets…”  
  
He doesn’t notice Castiel tensing up next to him. He’s gone inside, talking to the voice in his head. The world around him is too horrific right now to recognize.  
  
 _Do you think there’s anything we can’t do together, Dean? Not just defeat Lucifer. We can bring her back. You and your family will live long, happy lives in the new Paradise the angels will create on earth._  
  
“I am so damn sick of hearing about your Paradise!” Dean doubles over, clutching his head. “You did this to my brother. You did this to my— you _killed_ my mom.” Saying the words aloud brings a fresh flood of shock and sorrow. “Like hell would I ever say yes to you!”  
  
 _You will. Sooner or later. Once you see the havoc Lucifer can wreak._  
  
“And I’m sick of waiting,” Sam says. “Let me know when you’ve manned up, big brother. In the meantime, I feel like having some fun.” The gray smoke that’s been lingering at his feet swirls upward, and Dean shields his eyes.  
  
It has the force of a tornado, and with a groan like that of an ancient giant in agony, the roof rips off the farmhouse, flying into their air. Dean looks upward and sees it spiraling into the stratosphere, surrounded by the giant column of smoke, which stretches up as far as the eye can see. And in the middle of it, Sam, laughing, his eyes and his voice not his own. He corkscrews up through the grayness, until he’s barely a pinprick on the edge of Dean’s vision. Then the whole column rips through the west side of the house and swirls away, a giant cyclone of evil, toward the horizon.  
  
Dad goes to Mom’s body, grabs the charred scraps of clothing, and cries. Dean watches, then turns away. He can’t watch. It’s too horrible. He thinks he’s going to fall apart inside. He can’t even breathe.  
  
And then the horizon rumbles.  
  
Castiel rushes past, and Dean has to follow his gaze out past the open space that used to be the western wall of the house.  
  
On the horizon, a red glow forms, grows like an expanding soap bubble, and then explodes into plumes of fire and smoke streaking like signs of the apocalypse in the sky. Far away, Dean thinks he can hear sirens start to wail.  
  
Lucifer is on the loose.


	41. Part Thirty-Eight

Orange light spins threads of gold against the simple wooden cross. It’s just the sunset, but it makes the cross look like it’s on fire, and that image burns up Dean’s heart as much as the image of his father, hunched over the grave they’ve just filled in, too broken to care about the burns that mark his body or the plumes of smoke still rising from the horizon. Sometimes one person’s death is more important than widespread destruction. What matters isn’t how much, but how close.

If Dean didn’t have Cas right now, he’d be lost. Cas is holding him tight, arm secure around his shoulders, the other holding his hand, and Dean’s leaning on him, shaking, sweaty from the grave-digging and pale from all that’s happened. He can’t believe that he woke up this morning as a whole person, with a husband he loved and a family he believed was safe. Almost all of that has fallen away, and Cas is the only thread keeping him from breaking down entirely. Dad doesn’t have that kind of support. He’s tetherless, falling through space, and he can’t be consoled. Not by Dean, not by anyone.

The angels and the single remaining demon aren’t any help. They’re inside, likely making snide remarks or planning what they’re going to do once Lucifer has laid waste to half the world. Every so often Castiel groans, and Dean has the feeling he’s eavesdropping. God knows what they’re saying about Dean’s refusal to say yes, or Dad’s grief, or the destruction that’s lighting up the sky. Nothing polite, that’s for damn sure.

Cas makes up for them by a mile, and then some.

And as if Dean needed more reason to be glad Castiel existed, he squeezes Dean’s hand briefly and breaks away from him, walking to the grave and kneeling next to Dad. “May I say a few words?” he asks, quiet and respectful.

 

  
Dad looks up at him, and the tear streaks on his face might as well be arrows piercing straight through Dean’s gut. Even in his grief, he’s suspicious; he waits out Castiel, gazing at him and waiting for the facade to break. When it doesn’t, he gives a small, cautious nod.

Castiel stands, moves to the head of the grave and places his hand atop the cross. He blots out the worst of the sunset’s glare, and red light filters around him, giving him a corona of bright fire as he opens his mouth to speak. “Time,” he says, “is the cruelest master we have. It is unrelenting, cannot be changed or stopped, and neither angels nor men can reach backward through time to undo what has been done. Nor can we reach forward to seize certainty. We are stuck in the present moment. We are stuck in the uncertain and the irreversible.

“So we reach out in the present moment. We look for those who can share our uncertainty with us, who can accept us for all we are, all we have done, and all we have yet to do. And when we find them, it is a gift. If only we could stop time and prevent their being lost to us forever.” He glances at Dean as he goes on, and Dean’s heart constricts painfully.

He looks back at John, who is watching him. “I wish I could undo what has been done today. I wish I could peer into the future and tell you that easier times are to come. I cannot. But I can tell you, right now, that she is at peace. And that she only hopes you will be able to heal, carrying with you time’s most precious gift: memory.”

Castiel closes his eyes. “I ask my Father to bless her soul, to guide her home, and to look after those left behind. For this family, which has sacrificed for each other and for the divine plan, I ask peace.”

The glow around him brightens almost imperceptibly, white fraying the edges of the orange radiance. Dean moves to shield his eyes, but the illumination is gone as soon as it’s begun, leaving Castiel looking human and rumpled and trembling against the backdrop of destruction and sunset. In the distance, something else explodes with a deep boom that rattles the broken farmhouse.

John rises. “You’re Dean’s husband,” he says, wiping his tears with his sleeve.

Castiel nods.

“I’m glad to meet you,” he says, and offers his hand. “And I’m glad it’s you. You’ve been good to my boy, haven’t you?”

“I’ve done my utmost,” Castiel replies.

The sight of them, hands clasped, would warm Dean’s heart if it weren’t lying in pieces. Even so, Dean nods, lips quirking slightly. He’d wanted to introduce Cas to his parents. If this is the last salvageable shard of that dream, he can at least find joy that it has survived intact.

Castiel turns to Dean. “I need to speak to my brothers,” he says.

“About what?”

“There may yet be a way to stop Lucifer without you. If I can convince Zachariah and Uriel to take up arms against him, we may be able to overpower him, or at least stem the tide of destruction until reinforcements can arrive.”

“Are you serious?” Dean gapes at him. “I thought the only one who could kill him was Michael.”

“I didn’t say kill him.” And Castiel’s eyes flicker downward, barely, but enough for Dean to see the doubt and fear that hides behind them.

_I don’t have to tell you he’s thinking of a suicide mission,_ Michael whispers. _You can see it in his eyes. There’s a reason they’ve gone to so much trouble to find my vessel, you know. Nobody else can finish this. They all know it. Ask him why he’s even considering it. He’s trying to protect you from me. But in the end, Dean, he’ll give his life for you, and then you’ll be alone again._

Dean fights down a wave of nausea. He bites his lip. He doesn’t want to ask Cas anything just because Michael wants him to. But if Cas really is trying to make a kamikaze run, if there’s no chance he can win, then Dean has to stop him. He won’t lose anyone else today.

He seizes Castiel’s hands. “What can you do against him? Cas, if you’re not strong enough to take him, what happens to you?”

The grim silence he receives in return gives him his answer.

“No.” Dean wraps him up in an embrace. “No, Cas, I’m not letting you go. You’re staying right here with me. I need you.”

Hands take hold of his shirt, fisting into them. The feel of them makes Dean want to cry. “It’s the best chance we’ve got,” Cas whispers. “I can’t do nothing, Dean. I can’t let him kill and destroy at will. Someone needs to stand against him.”

“Why does it have to be you? Go make your dick brothers do it.”

“They won’t. Not on their own. But if I can convince them that facing Lucifer will make you say yes, they might actually put up a fight. They would want to stall him until you say yes.”

Dean makes a face and pulls away, holding Castiel at arm’s length. “Not sure how to take that.”

“The longer we can stall him,” Castiel says, “the more angels may come to our aid. They will see that we, as angels, can fight our brother, defeat him, and they will join the fight.” His jaw sets. “Dean, I cannot be the only angel who has fallen in love with this world. If I was able to love you, love the humans, others must have as well. I don’t want paradise on earth. Not anymore.” He blinks back tears. “I only want to be on earth with you.”

“Cas,” Dean says, and all he can do is gather Castiel into his arms.

“I won’t let Michael have you,” Castiel whispers in his ear. “I won’t lose you.”

But when Dean closes his eyes, all he can think of is smoke and destruction, and all he can hear is Michael saying _If he doesn’t lose you, you will lose **him**._

* * *

“Inside” is relative. The whole west wall of the house has been ripped out. So they’re all inside, relatively speaking, watching the local news station covering what they’re calling a tornado that is ripping up highway and farmland and heading straight for the city.

“We are still hoping that this phenomenon turns away before it enters the Topeka area,” the newswoman says, and behind her, far in the distance a car flies by. A person drops out of it and falls to his death halfway through the motion, a black speck that’s there one minute and gone the next. Meg laughs. Dean glares at her, then goes back to staring at the screen, huddled up on the couch with Dad. The angels are conferring in the next room. “Room” is relative too, since half the wall has been blown out.

“It was almost like this when the demons took over,” John says, muting the television. His voice is thick and hoarse with all the tears he’s shed. “We thought it was over with the angels, we really did.”

_It can be over again,_ says Michael into Dean’s ear. _You can finish it._

“Was it this bad?” Dean asks. “I barely remember. I only know I had to grab Sam and run. And it was too late.” He tries to disguise a sigh as a quick intake of breath, but probably fails. “I was too late.”

John turns to him, his eyes full of compassion. He folds his arms, wincing as his fingers brush past a burn. “You saved your brother’s life,” he says. “You weren’t too late.”

“If I’d been there, they never would have gotten to him,” Dean says. “Never would have pumped him full of—”

“Dean.” A hand comes down on his shoulder. Dean winces.

John scowls at him. “You were four years old. You understand that, right? You did the best you could. More than anyone could have ever expected you to do. If I was harsh, if I made you feel—”

“Dad.” Dean shakes his head. “I can’t. Not now. It’s too much.”

John swallows, takes in a breath that shudders its way out a moment later. “I’m proud of you,” is all he says. And then it’s silent in the room.

Way too silent.

“Where—” Dean runs through the broken section of wall to an empty room. He turns around, stomps on the wrecked tile, and calls out into the darkening sky for his missing husband.

“CAS!”

* * *

  
Dad’s car is a hardy thing, an Impala they’ve had since before Dean’s parents were married. Any other car and they might be in trouble, plowing their way though dried-out farmland where the highway’s been torn up, but not with this girl. John shifts gears and she motors her way down what used to be the highway into town, as Dean hunches forward in the seat and watches the buildings catch fire. The radio buzzes a dim, static-filled emergency transmission from the local authorities. Lucifer has reached Topeka, and he’s not slowing down.

“Remind me why we’re taking the demon,” Dean mutters after Meg kicks the seat one too many times.

“Because the demon wants to go,” Meg replies. “And because if you don’t, the demon will possess dear old Dad and drive there herself.”

Dean side-eyes his father. “And you trusted her? For months?”

“She was our only link to our son while he was recovering,” John says in a low, bitter growl. “They told us we had to stay away, for our own safety. This morning was the first we were allowed to see him… they told us we were going to get to come home…”

He blinks away tears. The Impala lurches dangerously.

Dean puts a hand on his dad’s shoulder. “Just get me there,” he says. It’s increasingly clear what he has to do. As much as he wishes it were otherwise, there’s only one way to undo all the pain and all the loss. He can still make this right.

It’s amazing that they make it as far into town as they do, but there’s at least one unbroken stretch of road that they’re able to navigate before they run into wall-to-wall traffic and people mobbing the streets. Dean breaks from the car and pushes his way through the crowd.

A gasp rises around him, and he looks up, following a thousand petrified stares. A body, heavy, falls from the rooftop of the building in front of him, plummeting like a rock. At the last minute, wings unfurl, and Uriel — Dean can just barely see his bald head and dark skin — flies upward toward the roof again. Something explodes, shaking the street, and a deep boom resonates in Dean’s ears. His heart twinges and leaps at once. They’re fighting. Cas has convinced them to fight.  
   
The gray smoke is still trailing down around the building, hovering like persistent fog, and it looks as though half the building is trapped within a cyclone’s ravaging grip. The people who are gathered in the street keep away from it, but Dean pushes toward it, and even the policemen are too terrified to stop him. When he plunges into the thick of the fog, he thinks it will freeze his skin off on contact. It grips, and blurs his vision, and as he pushes his way to the building’s door his father’s shout of “Dean!” and the roar of the crowd fade behind him as though the fog is cotton, filling his ears.

No electricity in the building. But the stairwell is open, and Dean makes it up the first four flights without getting winded. The fifth starts to hurt his calves, and by the seventh he’s panting, clutching the banister. The building has to be twenty stories, easily. He’s got to make it. Even if he burns out this body doing it.

He can see what’s going on up there as clearly as if it were right in front of him. Michael’s connecting him, sliding visions in front of his fatigue-blurred eyes. Sam — Lucifer — spreads his arms, laughing, and jets of black smoke envelop the angels who face him. The flash of a silver blade, the awakening of white power behind an outstretched palm, and the smoke dissipates, but not in time to see the next blow coming. Sam’s hand closes, and Castiel is held by the throat by nothing tangible, his feet lifting off the ground as he struggles and claws at thin air.

“Cas,” Dean mutters, rounding another landing and heading toward the thirteenth floor. Almost. Almost. More than halfway there.

Uriel charges Lucifer, shoulder forward, crying out in battle-thirsty rage. Lucifer slaps him aside like a rag doll, and Uriel lands on his back, his body creating a crater in the confcrete rooftop. Castiel attempts to summon power in his hand, and he swings blindly, wasting breath in an outraged cry. No effect. Now his lungs are bursting, and Dean can feel them, can feel the heat and the pounding of Castiel’s heart fading as his eyes start to close to the world.

Lucifer laughs. And it’s Sam’s voice laughing, and Sam’s face smiling with mirth as rubble rains down on the population. Dean wanted to see him happy and free, but not like this. And somewhere deep inside that face, he knows Sam is watching, fighting, trying to get back.

Dean’s so sorry. For what has happened to him, and for what will happen to him now. But when it’s all over, maybe… just maybe there will be a chance for peace. If not happiness, if not freedom, then at least they’ll have peace.

He bursts onto the rooftop.

Zachariah’s wings are out, brass-burnished and glinting in the ambient glow of the night’s neon and streetlights far below. Above, the moon is full, and it stares down at Dean, silently demanding. An eye that’s been watching him all this time.

Dean’s nothing. He’s been nothing. Just an empty tool, a shell. Since the start. He’s good with that now. Just as long as he can make something right.

And he’s had Cas. He’s had the happiness and uncertainty and fear and passion that was their marriage. That time is past, but it was real. And knowing it was real is the greatest comfort he can possibly take.

Lucifer’s eyes lift from Zachariah, and his stance eases. Zachariah turns. Castiel, released from the unseen hand, falls to the ground and coughs hard, trying to make his lungs work again.

All eyes on Dean.

“Yes,” Dean says.

It sounds impossibly loud to his own ears. It rings around his skull like a bell tolling. His eyes close, and he tries to quell the sound of it.

But when he opens his eyes again, he faces a blank tableau. Lucifer, through Sam’s eyes, the smoke swirling around him just hovering aimlessly. Zachariah, wings out, sword paused, stopped. Uriel, paused halfway through rising from where he’s crashed. And Castiel, still motionless on the rooftop. Looking at him sends looping panic and resolve through Dean’s blood.

Lucifer is the first to move. “Say that one more time, Dean?” he says, Sam’s voice lilting teasingly around the words.

Dean’s stomach sinks. Just looking at him hurts. But that’s why he’s doing this. It’s the only way to make the hurt end.

Wind gusts, sends a chill through him, and the night sky seems to darken. Dean looks up. Past Lucifer, past the rooftop, to the full moon that’s been gazing at him this whole time.

It’s concealed, hidden but for its north and south poles. In front of it — stretching across the whole night sky, in a wide ring, are a hundred, a thousand angels. They hover above him like spectators at a colosseum, all with severe faces and outspread wings, waiting. Here to witness the final rumble.

Rage pours through Dean. He calls out to them, to all of them. “You bastards,” he shouts. “You want a fight? You want your damned paradise on earth?” No answer — they just watch. Vultures, every last one of them, waiting for the battle to be done so they can feast on the carnage. Dean takes in a breath. “Fine,” he goes on. “You’ve taken everything from me, from my family. You might as well have me too.”

He doesn’t even have the strength to cry anymore. He drops to his knees on the rooftop, spreads his arms wide. “C’mon in, Michael,” he announces. “I’m saying yes.”

And he closes his eyes, waits for the world to go black.

_Dean, thank you. I will make things right. Just lean back, and let me in._

The whisper in his ears. Dean thought he wouldn’t hear it again. He just wants to let go, to let Michael take control, and not have to deal with the bastard’s stupid voice anymore.

“I’m letting you in,” Dean says. “Go on.”

He can feel it, now, the pushes of light and heat at the edges of his consciousness. Something’s trying to fill him up, drown him out, and he does his best to float on the surface of it, to let the wave of Michael’s existence wipe his out. His arms feel lighter. His sense of where he is starts to fade. He’s going into a dark place, a faraway place, where he can’t feel or see or be anymore. It’s ready. It’s time for him to go.

_Dean, let go._ Michael’s voice is still on the edges of his consciousness. _You need to give up control._

“I’m trying,” Dean says, but he can still feel his fingers. He’s still here.

Oh, God. Something’s wrong. It’s not working.


	42. Part Thirty-Nine

“Yes.”

He’s trying. He’s let go. But it’s not happening.

“Yes,” he mutters again, like the word will fix whatever’s wrong. “Come on, damn it, Michael, _yes!_ ”

A rush of heat against his senses, like he’s being burned up, and Dean cries out in pain. But it’s still his voice, his cry, and it’s still him feeling the shock to his nerves. He’s in control of his body, still. As much as he wants to pass out and let Michael take over, he just can’t.

_I don’t understand,_ Michael says.

Another surge of heat, and Dean snaps back, falling onto his ass on the hard concrete of the rooftop. His eyes blink open. There’s nothing inside him. No Michael. He’s still himself.

And when Michael speaks next, everyone on the rooftop can hear it.

“This vessel is corrupt!”

 

The voice that’s been taunting Dean in whispers for so long now booms out over the city, and the myriad angel spectators murmur, their wings fluttering in a susurrating noise that sounds like the great fans of a wind tunnel, all blowing air inward. Dean’s cold from the light that’s drained from him, and the currents are leaving him freezing. Confused, he crawls to the closed rooftop door, uses it as a lever to work his body to its feet. He leans against it, tries to stay steady and to comprehend what’s happened.

“Castiel.” Michael speaks, and Castiel stirs, sits up with a grunt of pain. “Castiel, what have you done?”

Castiel looks around slowly. His eyes filter over Lucifer, over Zachariah and Uriel, and finally take in Dean. Steel glints in his gaze, and Dean gasps as he suddenly realizes what’s happened. His jaw drops, and he shoots Castiel a silent question. Castiel nods, almost imperceptibly, and it’s enough. Dean gets it.

“You’ve failed,” Michael says. “You did not complete the sacraments.”

“I completed all the sacraments,” Castiel says. His eyes are burning with purpose, and new strength is surging through Dean with the realization. “But that’s not all I did.”

His eyes connect with Dean. “I told you I wouldn’t let him have you,” he says.

Michael comes at him one more time, in an invisible rush, and Dean braces himself against the door, holds himself steady. For an instant he’s seared with blinding heat, and all he can see is white. The world, the rooftop, his possessed brother and his recovering husband, the blocked-out moon and the heavenly chorus, all gone. And he feels Michael touch him, feels Michael come to the realization, and then the recoil drains out of him and he’s left alone and himself. One hundred percent himself.

And a little more.

“There’s angel in you,” Michael says. “There’s Grace in your soul.”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes. “Yeah, there is, isn’t there?” He laughs a little, amazed. His eyes flit to his brother, to Lucifer, and hope lights his heart.

A moment later, Castiel goes rigid. His head jolts back and his arms go out as though he’s being stretched on a rack.  He cries out, falls forward, hits the concrete on all fours and crumples.

Dean runs toward him, but a wave of energy knocks him back. Castiel raises his head, and his eyes are hard, but this time not with determination. He gets to his feet. “What have you done?” he demands of Dean. In Michael’s voice.

“You tell me,” Dean says. “You’re the one inside him right now. Have a good look.”

Michael is silent. He looks down at Castiel’s hands, closes his eyes to feel his way through the vessel. “He has blasphemed,” he murmurs, voice starting slow and soft, rising as he goes on. “He has imbibed, he has doubted and rebelled. You’ve…” He opens his eyes and glares at Dean. “You’ve made him human.”  
  
“He’s got a little human in him, yeah,” Dean says, striding forward. “At least he has. Literally. Too much information?”  
  
“You’ve owned this body?” Michael looks down at the body he’s in — Castiel’s body — as though it’s falling apart. “Castiel allowed you to own his body?”  
  
“Wedded bliss,” Dean says. “Go figure.”  
  
“Castiel!” Michael’s voice, horrified, rings out in the night. “You’ve polluted your Grace by mingling it with his soul. How could you do this? How could you lower yourself to his level?”  
  
Dean comes right up to him. It may be Cas’s face, but he doesn’t have any doubt whom he’s facing. He only hopes Cas is still OK in there somewhere.  
  
“We’re equals,” he says. “That’s what marriage _is_.”  
  
Michael recoils in a moment of shock.  
  
That’s all it takes. In another moment Lucifer is striking, sending a bolt of energy toward him, and Michael turns to block it. The block only halfway succeeds; Michael’s thrown backward, and his arms burst into flame. He slams them down against the concrete, quenching the fire, but awful burns now ripple down his forearms. Castiel’s arms. Dean takes in a breath, fights nausea at the sight.  
  
Michael sees it. “This vessel can’t contain me,” he says. “The longer I stay in Castiel’s vessel, the more it will deteriorate. And Castiel’s human enough to be bound to this vessel now. You and your foolish marriage have sealed his doom. This body dies, he dies.”  
  
Fear ripples along Dean’s spine. “Get out of him, Michael,” he demands, trying to walk forward to seize him, but a bolt of fire catches him next, and his body lights up. His skin is seizing, melting, and he can hear his own scream as he’s knocked to the ground. Somehow he has the presence of mind to roll over, smother the flames, but pain is prickling along his skin and he doesn’t doubt that he’s sustained matching burns to the ones now marking Castiel’s skin. He fights to maintain his presence of mind. There’s still Sam. Sam is still possessed.  
  
“You’ve doomed everyone,” Michael calls out. “Without me you can’t do anything. You think you loved each other? Stupid treasonous sacks of meat. Your love has brought about the end of the world.”  
  
Dean’s heart sinks.  
  
 _I gave you legs to stand upon the earth, Dean._  
  
Is it Cas that’s whispering to him now? Has Cas escaped his vessel, is he now just a voice in Dean’s ear?  
  
 _I gave you legs to stand upon the Earth, and you chose your place. You chose to stay here._  
  
Could be Cas. Could be his own memory. But he remembers it now, remembers the meaning of it, and the understanding floods his heart with hope.  
  
He rises to his feet. “Bull,” he says. “Castiel loving me was destiny. Without that, we never would have finished the sacraments. This was supposed to happen. All of this was supposed to happen.”  
  
He stretches his arms in front of his chest, rock them from side to side to examine him. They still tingle, but the burn marks are gone.  
  
“This was my destiny,” he says. “It was never yours. I’m the One, not you. You called me your sword, didn’t you? Guess that means I’m a weapon. Whether or not you’ve got your hands on me.”  
  
He looks right at Michael. “You think you gave me those wings,” he says. “But you didn’t. He did.”  
  
 _Dean._ Ringing in his ears, his own name a sound of possibility and power.  
  
“Every single time, it was loving Cas that saved me. Believing in him. That’s what gave me wings.”  
  
 _I believe in you, Dean._  
  
“Yeah, Cas,” Dean murmurs, “I believe in you too.”  
  
And this time, the wind gust that overwhelms him comes from his own back.  
  
Dean rises above the rooftop, his wings spreading and catching the light of the moon. They reflect, magnify, cast pools of golden light on the few who stand below. Sam’s hair blows to the side, covers his face, and Lucifer stares upward from his eyes, in shock. The angels below, Zachariah and Uriel, have gone useless, watching in stunned amazement as Dean flies up toward the center of the ring of watching angels.  
  
He looks down at Lucifer and builds up a lungful of breath.  
  
“Give me back my brother,” he demands.  
  
His eyes turn to Michael.  
  
“And you, give me back my husband.”  
  
The rooftop disappears in a wash of gray-black smoke. Lucifer rises up through the air, zooming up to Dean’s level. Hovering there, he looks like he’s at the peak of an ever-moving mountain, like the god of an erupting volcano. Shadows and reflected moonlight dance over his face, and his smile is cold-hearted.  
  
“That’s very impressive,” he says. “So now you think you’re an angel.”  
  
“Sammy,” Dean says. “Sammy, c’mon back to me. I know you’re in there.”  
  
Lucifer laughs. “Yes, he’s in here. You should hear the way his soul is screaming.”  
  
Dean flies toward him, seizes him by the shoulders, then cries out and lets go, hurtling backward. His hands are burning as though he’s just submerged them in acid. He scowls, fights to regain control of himself. “Let him go.”  
  
“He could take control again,” Lucifer says. “If he really wanted to. But he doesn’t. Do you know why, Dean?”  
  
Dean scowls, careens forward again, tries to ram himself into Lucifer shoulder first. Lucifer dodges. Dean hits nothing and plummets downward, out of control.  
  
“He doesn’t believe in you,” Lucifer shouts after him. “He doesn’t trust you. He thinks you abandoned him.”  
  
Dean turns over and over. The rooftop is coming up hard beneath him. It feels like tearing himself in half, but he twists, recovers, goes soaring up again.  
  
“He thinks you’re only trying to get me out of him,” Lucifer says, “because you can’t stand the fact that he’s finally stronger than you are. You just want something to hold over his head. And the minute you get him back? You’ll just leave him behind again.”  
  
Lucifer spreads his arms, lets loose a wave of pitch-black energy. It throws Dean backwards, but this time he doesn’t lose his balance. “Sam,” he shouts, and crosses his arms in front of his face, holding back the worst of the wind.  
  
His wings beat hard, pushing him forward against the assault. “Sammy, I’m here,” he shouts. “I’m not leaving. Not now, not ever.”  
  
“You already left!” Lucifer shouts. “You left him alone, and then they took his parents away from him, and he was being fed blood and he was all alone. He’s not going to give you that chance again. A chance for you to leave him behind, forget about him.”  
  
 _Your husband — you care about him, I can’t… I can’t make you lose him …_  
 _Don’t say yes, Dean. Have a life, be happy._  
  
That was Sam. This isn’t. None of what Lucifer’s saying is true. And as Dean remembers, the blackness buffeting his face seems to lift. He’s shielded, protected. The path to Sam is clear.  
  
He doesn’t need to wonder why or how. He would know Cas anywhere.  
  
“I left _for_ Sam,” he says. His wings beat harder. He pushes closer. Sam’s nearly in arm’s reach.  
  
“And what a noble sacrifice you made,” Lucifer sneers. “Except for the part where you forgot about him to play house with your husband. Were you thinking about Sam’s best interests while you two were in bed together? When you were sharing good-morning kisses and having dips in the pool? Or were you just living it up like a pair of fools?”  
  
“I love my brother,” Dean says. “And I love my husband.”  
  
He reaches out.  
  
“And I won’t live in a world without both of them.”  
  
His hands connect with Sam’s shoulders again. The pain burns them, but this time he doesn’t let go. Even as steam starts to rise from the palms of his hand, even as he can feel his skin bubbling. He beats his wings, and he fights back the darkness. Closer. So close.  
  
Dean’s chin hooks on Sam’s shoulder. His arms wind around Sam. The pain washes through him, and then fades away. He can’t feel it anymore.  
  
 _Thank you, Cas,_ he thinks.  
  
“Come on, Sam,” he says. “Come back. Help me get rid of them. All of them. You and me, we can do this.”  
  
He looks out at the angels who watch, shocked, hovering in the darkness.  
  
“This world was made for us, for humans,” he shouts. “Not for angels, not for demons. For us. And we’re not going to let you have it.”  
  
Lucifer begins to tremble.  
  
His hands rise. They clutch at Dean’s back, take hold there. And all at once, all Dean can see is light.  
  
The cry rips from his throat. “This world is ours. Go home!”  
  
The light bursts, white and full, from his every pore, through and from Sam, spilling out like the full moon’s brilliance through the night. It spreads, washes over everything, and as they are touched by it, the angels cry out and crumple. Their bodies twitch and break, they bend and distort. Radiance pours out of their eyes and mouths, their fingertips and toes. And then, as though the sky is folding in on itself, they fade to nothing and wink out.  
  
Around them, the clouds of gray smoke and black energy that have been holding Lucifer aloft turn red-brown, as though set aflame. They burn quickly as paper, curling and puckering. Not-quite-human screams fill the night and then fade away. And the smoke disappears.  
  
The moon and stars come out, and the hot glare of the city lights shine up in a sudden flood of brilliance. But Dean’s glow has faded. He clings to Sam’s body, feeling as though he barely exists, as though he’s a puff of air with no mass. Just floating there. Ready to disintegrate.

“Dean?”  
  
Small. Soft, scared. Next to Dean’s ear. It brings him back to himself, and he swallows, feels the weight of his own body again. He finds his strength, pulls back and looks into familiar eyes.

“Sam,” he murmurs. “It’s OK. It’s over. You’re going to be OK.”  
  
“You have wings,” Sam says. “Dean, they’re disappearing…”  
  
His eyes sink closed, and he plummets.  
  
Dean dives after him, catches him, and holds him close. He can feel his wings fading now. All that was angel in him is winking out.  
  
And the rooftop below them, where two pairs of charcoal-gray wings mark the concrete where Zachariah and Uriel once stood, is coming up fast. Dean tucks Sam’s head into his shoulder, covers him up, and braces for the impact.


	43. Part Forty

Dean’s falling again.

Once, it seems like a lifetime ago, he was falling from the sky without any hope of survival. He’d been betrayed, or so he thought, but as the wind whistled past his skin and chilled him, he grew into a kind of understanding. He hadn’t been betrayed after all. Castiel had said “I believe in you.” And Dean had grown wings and soared back up into the sky.

Now his wings are gone. There’s nothing magic left in the world, no more faith-made-reality. The angels have gone, the demons too. The only force that’s still at work is gravity. But there’s still Sam next to him, warm and real, and a strange peace has settled over Dean. If nothing else, he managed to keep the world intact tonight. He looks helplessly up at the moon and curls Sam close to him. This is all right. At least now he’ll be able to keep Sam safe. Cushioned by Dean’s own body, Sam will survive the impact. He’ll get up. And he and Dad will go home, and find some way to live on.

It’s good enough. Dean’s eyes close again. He’s done what he came here to do.

 

He’s thinking about the day he moved in with Castiel. The day they first met, and his fear being eclipsed, for the first time, by wonder as he saw the huge house he’d be living in.  Somehow he got used to that place, all the space and the luxury it offered. The kind of place he never thought he’d fit in, and he found a home there.

Breakfast, that first morning. After they had, completely against their better judgment, fallen into bed together. The awkward morning after, but by the evening they were in each other’s arms again. It was as though Castiel was Earth itself, as though gravity had been pulling Dean in from the beginning. And now, though he knows there’s nothing but concrete below him, he feels as though he’s falling again into the arms of an angel who had loved him forever, who will love him now.

Maybe that’s what death will feel like. Like falling into Cas’s arms. And if Cas is waiting for him in heaven, Dean’s good with it. He just wants to find his way home again.

He doesn’t feel the impact. Maybe he’s been killed instantly. Maybe this is the most peaceful death he can imagine. Because he’s light. And he’s floating, and the cool concrete that settles down beneath his cheek doesn’t feel real.

“Cas,” he murmurs, as though in sleep. Because for a moment he swore he could hear his voice.

“Dean.”

“‘S OK, Cas.” He’s dizzy, like he’s about to fall asleep. “We did it. It’s OK.”

“Dean, come on. Open your eyes.”

Then his shoulders are seized and shaken, and it hurts. Hard hands on him. Not Cas’s hands. And you’re not supposed to hurt in heaven, are you?

He opens his eyes. And if this is heaven, it turns out heaven looks an awful lot like a rooftop in Topeka.

“Am I still alive?” he rasps out.

Sam’s face comes into view. Tear-streaked. He’s sniffling. Crybaby. “Yeah, Dean,” he says. “You’re alive. You’re fine.”

“…How?”

Sam shakes his head. “I don’t know. We slowed down. It was like we were floating. Just for a minute, but…”

He trails off. Dean turns over, feels the cold concrete beneath his palms and knees. Slowly he eases up to sit, to look around and take stock of his surroundings.

The full moon is gazing down at them, unblinking and steady, pouring light onto the rooftop. No smoke drifts by; no wings flap in the night. The angels are gone. The skies are clear. And somehow Dean’s still alive. Alive and alone, here on this rooftop, with Sam.

And a body that lies in shadow, in a far corner, unmoving.

Dean forces himself to his feet, staggers toward the corner. “Cas? Cas,” he shouts, though his lungs ache and his feet threaten to mutiny beneath him. “You better be in there. You better get your ass back in there, you hear?”

Sam, behind him, is still sitting on the rooftop, collecting himself. “Dean?”

Dean turns to him. “He was protecting me up there, Sammy. I could feel him. If he — if he saved us, just now, if he’s not in his vessel… he’s not gonna make it if he doesn’t get back in there. Michael said it, he said Cas’s vessel was going to fall apart, and if Cas is out of there too long—”

Sam scrambles up to follow him. “I thought all the angels got blasted. I mean, I felt Lucifer drain out of me. More than that. I felt like I could feel the demons… everywhere…”

“Cas isn’t all angel anymore,” Dean says. “He’s gotta be human enough to stick around. If he isn’t— oh, God, Cas, you better be breathing.”

He’s close enough to Castiel’s body now that he can let the strength drain from his muscles. He drops to his knees, crawls his way over and seizes Castiel by the shoulders. “Oh, God.”

“What?” Sam’s behind him now.

“He’s not.” Dean can barely get the words out. “He’s not breathing, Sammy. I….”

Sam crouches next to him. “Oh, no. Dean, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The world blurs behind a veil of tears. Dean doesn’t have the strength left to even hold himself up. He crumples over Castiel’s body.

“You weren’t supposed to save me,” he shouts into the air, his hands taking fistfuls of Castiel’s shirt, pulling hard. “What was the point in saving me if you were gonna end up dead, Cas? Didn’t you hear me up there? I don’t want a world without you. You’re my husband, you were supposed to stay with me forever. We were gonna go home after this. You were supposed to stay.”

A gust of wind blows over the rooftop. Dean shivers, and tears fly from his eyes, picked up by the breeze. It stings, and he huddles in close, presses his head to Castiel’s chest. Beneath them, the buzz of the crowds of people is starting to fade away. Dean’s own heartbeat sounds louder and more painful as the noise subsides, and he feels as though he has to swallow hard to keep his heart from beating into his throat.

No.

It’s not just his own heart.

Hope slams into him like a battering ram, and he gasps. “Sam.” He sits up. “Sam, he’s alive. I can hear his heartbeat.”

Sam’s face lights up. He meets Dean’s eyes and nods. There’s an instant of silent communication, as though they’ve been in this situation a thousand times before. They never have. But Dean still knows just what to do.

Sam inches over to take his place next to Castiel’s chest, and Dean moves up to his head, tipping it back. “Come on, Cas,” he murmurs, and takes a deep breath, then fits his mouth over Castiel’s open lips.

No response. Sam presses his hand to Castiel’s chest, pumps down. Dean takes another breath, inflates Castiel’s lungs. This is how you bring a body back to life, but what if Cas isn’t in that body anymore? What if he’s gone, disappeared into the atmosphere?

“Come on,” he mutters again, takes a third breath, presses it down into cool red lips.

They come alive under his, expelling a rough cough. Dean jumps back, shaking hard. He keeps trembling as Castiel turns onto his side, as the color returns slowly to his face. He coughs again, breathes once with difficulty, then easier. His eyes open, and he stares, unfocused, at his own hands.

“Cas?” Dean whispers. “Cas, is that you in there?”

Castiel blinks. His eyes dart upward, and he takes another labored breath.

Dean fights the urge to shake him. “Tell me that’s you, Cas. Tell me that’s not Michael in there still.”

“I didn’t think,” Castiel starts, confused, then coughs hard again. Dean glances at Sam, knowing the terror is written all over his face, not caring. If this isn’t Cas…

But then Castiel meets Dean’s gaze. “I didn’t think breathing hurt this much,” he says. “Does… it always hurt like this? For humans?”  
  
Dean flings himself forward, grabs Castiel around the neck, and burrows into his shoulder face first. The long, labored inhalations beneath him sound like a hallelujah.  
  
“Dean,” Castiel manages after a long moment. “You’re not helping.”  
  
Sam pulls Dean up. “Give the guy a break,” he says, laughing. “Let him recover. You guys can make out later.”  
  
“We weren’t making out,” Dean growls, twisting in Sam’s grip. But the look on his brother’s face stills him. “Oh, my God. We’re actually all gonna make it out of this alive. I didn’t think—”  
  
He stops short. “Oh, God. No, we’re not. Sam, Mom…”  
  
Sam goes very still. Dean watches as he works out what was real, what was the nightmare of the devil inside him and what actually happened. The realization, the horror on his face renders him still, but his eyes are shining with the shock.

When he can finally move his jaw, his whisper is chalk-white with disbelief and horror. “But… But Lucifer told me, he promised he’d bring her back.”  
  
Dean shakes his head. “Michael told me the same thing,” he says. “But I don’t think either of them gave a damn about us in the end, Sammy. They were gonna kill half the world to make their paradise. God only knows how many moms we saved. But I don’t think ours was one of them.” He takes a breath. “I think she’s gone.”  
  
He’s had all night, had the immediacy of danger and the adrenaline of a fight to keep him together as he came to grips with it. But Sam has been gone almost from the moment Mom died. He said yes too soon. Now he’s in control of himself again, and now reality hits him all at once. He gives a choked sob, leans forward and hides his head in his hands. His shoulders shake.  
  
Dean crawls over to him, wraps his arms around him. He’s nowhere near over it, but he can be strong for Sammy one more time, hold him together now so they can find their way through and past this grief in a safer space.

“Come on, Sammy,” he whispers when Sam’s tears abate. “Let’s get off this roof, go down and find Dad. Let’s go.”  
   
He looks over Sam’s shoulder at Castiel, who is sitting up and has been watching the two of them silently. He looks good, although the burns from Lucifer’s attack still stretch over his arms. They will scar, and Castiel will no longer be able to heal them. But he’s breathing, he’s whole, and that is all Dean could ever ask for.

“You coming?” he says. Castiel nods.

Together, the three of them manage to get up and head back down the staircase. Their legs ache and their breaths come weak and shuddering, but Dean keeps them going, stopping every other landing to remind them, “We’re going home.” And when they emerge, when John tears through the crowd to gather all three of them up in a huge bear hug, Dean thinks he can see past the fatigue and tears to the future.

They’ll go home. Sam will collapse at his mother’s grave. They’ll mourn, and cry, and find solace in each other. As the days drag on, they’ll rebuild the east wall of the farmhouse together. Cas will stay there, recuperating from his own injuries and getting used to being a full human. And when the house stands whole again, Dean dares to dream, they will fulfill one more promise.

* * *

  
There are clouds on the horizon, threatening a rainstorm to come. But the skies above are clear, and a breeze blows through the front porch to ruffle Castiel’s hair. Dean tried to convince him to get a haircut before this, but the concept of hair actually growing and needing taming is still a little lost on Cas. So now it’s in his face, and there’s nothing much to be done about that now. Not while their hands are joined.

“So now I guess we’re at that exciting place,” John says, “where we find out if the best man has forgotten the rings.”

He lobs an expectant look at Sam. Dean turns, freezes in sudden worry as Sam presses his hand to the front pocket of his jacket, then to the back pocket just below the cummerbund. “Oh, no,” he deadpans, but a moment later he breaks into a grin. “Just kidding.” He pulls two rings out of his front pocket, identical, each a plain and unbroken band of gold.

Not many people are watching the ceremony — a few neighbors, some faces Dean doesn’t recognize — but he is pretty sure that Mom’s holding the clouds off for them, and as long as she’s up there keeping tabs, he doesn’t need a huge audience. All he needs is Sam standing up for him, and Dad performing the ceremony, and the man next to him smiling and looking more damn beautiful than Dean has ever seen him.

He takes one ring in his hand. Castiel leans over to take the other.

“Who first?” he says.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Don’t think it matters. Go ahead.”

He holds out his hand, watches as the band slips onto his finger, and meets Castiel’s gaze. He can’t keep the grin off his face.

“With this ring,” Castiel says gravely, “I thee wed. Once more, we are bound together. This time under the law of man and God, not according to the whims of angels.”

Dean nods. “And a good thing, too.” He slides his own ring onto Castiel’s finger, and the sight of the two bands glimmering as their fingers intertwine makes his heart swell painfully in his chest. “Oh, God, do I have to say it?”

He breaks off, gives a short laugh. He can hear Sam chuckling behind him. “Come on, Dean,” he prods. “Don’t chicken out now.”

Dean turns, shoots him a look. “Fine. God, you’re such a brat.” Sam shrugs and lifts his eyebrows, grinning.

Dean turns back to Cas. “With this ring,” he says, “I thee wed. Which, uh, sounds really cheesy. Because we’re already wed, but…”

John clears his throat, ready to speak again, but Dean cuts him off. “Damn it,” he says, “all right, I’m gonna do this. I’m gonna say something really sappy, because if I can’t do that at my own wedding, when the hell can I?”

“Go on,” John says with a smirk. Dean’s guts crawl into his feet, but he picks them back up and stares at Castiel with determined eyes.

“I love you,” he says. “Short, simple, and to the point. And true. I love you. And I’m gonna say that to you every day from now on. Not where these bozos can hear it, but sometimes when you’re not expecting it, after breakfast or when we’re working or right at the end of the night when you think I’ve forgotten. Every single day, for the rest of our lives.

“You’re my better half, Cas. You’re my husband. And it’s thanks to you I still have my brother, and my father, and a future, and… I just can’t say how thankful I am for that. So I’m gonna say I love you instead. Every day. How’s that for a wedding vow?”  
  
Castiel smiles as wide as Dean’s ever seen him. “It’s perfect,” he says.  
  
Dean smiles, breaks his eye contact with Cas briefly to gaze at his brother, his father. Their smiles answer his. And he looks out over the yard again, sees reverence and appreciation on the faces there, even the ones he doesn’t know. And he thinks, how do they know me? Why do they care enough to be here?  
  
Maybe just because they’re human. Because being human is about caring about one another, and sometimes it’s just nice to know that people do, and that it’s enough.  
  
His eyes catch an unfamiliar pair of eyes in the crowd. They’re bright, piercing, fixed on Dean’s the way a stranger’s eyes seldom do. As Dean frowns in the struggle to recognize him, the stranger lifts his eyebrows — once, twice — and smiles a crooked smile.  
  
But in the next minute, John is declaring them husbands — again — and all Dean’s confusion is swept away in the rush of joy that brings his gaze and thoughts back to the man in front of him. The look on Castiel’s face at that moment is one Dean will never forget, as long as he lives. Not just joy but relief. They have made it, and they are married. Still. And always.  
  
Dean leans in and kisses him. And as their lips meet — though there’s no church nearby, no place they could be coming from — Dean swears he can hear the peal of wedding bells all around him. He lets the sound resonate through his body like a celebration.  
  
He and Castiel step off the front porch and into the yard, hands joined. Together, they move into the circle of their neighbors and friends, accepting congratulations and good wishes. When Dean looks over his shoulder, he sees his father’s face beaming. His brother, too. Their smiles are radiant, and around them, the whole porch has been lit with sudden light.

Dean lifts his gaze to the sky. The raincloud that had been threatening has faded away. The sun has come out, and heavens are clear.  
  
And Dean and Castiel’s life beneath them is just beginning.

  


  
**THE END**


	44. Epilogue

“Mary! Mariel Winchester, get back here!”

Tiny feet scamper across the kitchen floor, leaving a set of adorable, muddy prints on the tile. A screaming laugh echoes off the walls. Sam runs through in stocking feet, slips on the mud and tile, and goes sliding hopelessly across the kitchen, only catching himself in the doorway.

Dean looks up from his book. “Everything okay there, Sammy?”

“How do you guys do this full-time?” Sam says between gulping breaths. “I’ve only been watching her an hour and I’m already winded.” He looks over his shoulder. “Sorry about the floor.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Dean rolls his eyes. “Seriously, mud is easy. It’s puree of green bean that really gave us hell, back before she was eating solid food.”

“Thank goodness they at least outgrow that, huh?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. You wouldn’t believe where I’ve been finding Cheerios lately.”

Mariel gives a shrieking laugh from upstairs. Sam does a 180. “How did she get up there— damn it, Dean, this is your fault, your house is too big!” He takes off, slides the other way across the kitchen floor, and makes for the staircase.

“Thanks for the babysitting, Sammy!” Dean shouts, chuckling.

“Sammee!” Mariel echoes from upstairs. Sam makes a frustrated noise. Dean has to hold back another peal of laughter.

 

The front door opens, and Dean gets up, sliding a bookmark into his book and striding through the library to the foyer. Castiel’s weighed down with four paper bags, and Dean eases one off his arms, then another. “Thanks,” Castiel says, and leans in to peck him on the lips. “The peaches are bad, we’re into fall fruit now, so I just got apples.”

“Nothing wrong with apples,” Dean says. “You can make apple pie from apples.”

“We’re not making apple pie— oh, for the love of…!” Castiel has stopped in the kitchen doorway. He groans. “I’m not cleaning this up. You can clean this up.”

“Clean what up—- oh.” Dean had already forgotten about the footprints. “Don’t blame me. You’re the one who’s always teaching her about nature.”

Castiel sighs and sets his grocery bags on the counter. “The playing outside she gets from me. The troublemaking she gets from you.”

Actually, Mariel doesn’t get anything from either side. She’s adopted, having joined the family at the tender age of four months, and neither Dean nor Castiel knows anything about her birth parents. She’s a gift from heaven where they’re concerned, a beautiful, chubby-cheeked, energetic little girl who’s always driving her parents and uncle and grandfather crazy, and they wouldn’t trade her for anything in the world.

Most of the time. When Mariel shrieks with laughter upstairs, and a thud sounds along with a grunt from Sam, Dean seriously considers returning her to the store for another model.

“I guess I’d better go make sure he doesn’t kill himself up there,” he says.

But a moment later, Sam’s shouting downstairs, “Everything’s all right, I’m all right,” and Mariel’s echoing with “Awright!” So Dean sticks around, helps Castiel put the groceries away.

“I ran into someone today,” Castiel says. “At the store. He says he was at our wedding.”

“Oh, yeah? One of the neighbors?” Dean sticks his head into the refrigerator, makes a face and pulls out an old-looking tomato to make room for the new bunch Cas has bought. “Who was it?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel replies. “But he asked me to ask you how you liked the wedding bells.”

“The wedding was at Dad’s house. There were no—” Dean stops short. There’s a memory there, one moment in a thousand, and it’s faded in the three years Dean hasn’t bothered to recall it. He remembers— maybe— eyes. Or eyebrows? Something like that. And when he sees them, he can hear bells.

  
Castiel watches him a moment, then intones quietly. “Although my brothers have long since departed for Heaven, I sometimes wonder if there were some, like me, who found love and a home in the human world. And sometimes, I wonder if they have also found a way to continue on this plane.”  
  
Dean closes the refrigerator door. He stares at Castiel blankly, trying to find the question that’s hovering dully in the back of his mind.

And then he frowns. “Hey, Cas, bend over.”  
  
Castiel’s scowl is a thing of beauty. Dean bursts out laughing. “Not like that,” he says. “Forward. Let me see.” He reaches up into Castiel’s hair, and Castiel bows his head to allow him to take a closer look.  
  
A few moments of squinting, and Dean lets out an “A-ha!”  
  
“What is it?” Castiel is still bent forward, staring down at Dean’s feet.  
  
“Don’t cry now, Cas,” Dean says, “but I think I found your first gray hair.”  
  
Castiel straightens up. And yeah, he looks kind of like he’s about to cry.  
  
“C’mon, dude,” Dean says, taking his hand. Their wedding bands catch the sunlight that filters through the windows and glint bright gold. “It’s not that bad. Hell, I have about a dozen now. You can always blame it on Mary if you don’t want to think about growing old.”  
  
“I don’t mind growing old,” Castiel says, pulling Dean into his arms. “Not if I’m here with you.”  
  
Dean forgets himself for a moment and just smiles at him. He’d never let a cheesy line like that go a few years ago, but he’s been letting himself go a bit. Having a daughter will do that to a guy, and so will marriage — real marriage, grocery shopping and laundry-doing and all. In the absence of the mysterious angelic wealth that seemed to keep this whole block of houses going, they’ve both had to get jobs — part-time, right now, because Mariel needs watching. Castiel runs a bookstore in town. Dean fixes cars. When they come home at night, they inevitably smell of motor oil and yellowed pages.  
  
Right now, Cas smells of produce, and Dean sniffs at his neck, wondering at how much he can enjoy such a simple scent. Usually, he’s not a fan of food smells unless they’re hamburger or pastry. Life really is mellowing him.  
  
It’s sure as hell not the life they expected to live, though.  
  
Mariel comes through the doorway, followed by a bedraggled-looking Sam. She squeaks at the sight of Castiel and runs forward, arms outstretched; Castiel picks her up and cuddles her close, kissing her rosy cheek. “Dada,” she says, and tries to grab fistfuls of his hair. It’s still too long, even though Dean manages to get him to cut it about once every few months.  
  
Sam nods greeting at Cas. “So if you guys are all set here, I’ll head on out,” he says. “Bye-bye, Mary.”  
  
Mariel twists in Castiel’s arms. “No, no bye-bye, Uncah Sammee!” The last note escalates into a shriek.  
  
“It’s OK, you’ll see him later,” Dean says. “We’ll go bother him and Grandpa later on at the farmhouse. You like that?”  
  
“Fom-hass!” Mariel nods her head. The next minute, she’s tucked her body into Castiel’s chest, head dropping and eyes blinking to try to stay open. “Fom-hass layter…” she murmurs, and then she’s gone.  
   
“Oh, God, there she goes. Off like a light switch.” Dean shakes his head, grinning. Mariel’s breathing has already evened out. “You better get out now, while the getting’s good, Uncah Sammee.” He winks.  
  
“I hate you and I hate everything about you,” Sam retorts, but he’s grinning. “Later, Cas.” A nod, and he’s ducking back through the doorway, ready to head home.  
  
As the Impala’s growl echoes from the driveway, Dean and Castiel head upstairs. The room right next to their bedroom, the one that used to house Dean’s things, is now Mariel’s nursery. Glow-in-the-dark stars and a full moon sparkle on the ceiling.  
  
“She’s getting too big for this crib,” Dean whispers. “Gonna be time for a big-girl bed for her soon.”  
  
Castiel lays her down, pulls the blanket over her. “We’re all getting a little older,” he replies.  
  
“Before we know it she’ll be going to school,” Dean says. “And playing with Barbies and having friends over for sleepovers, and talking about boys.”  
  
Castiel shudders. “That’s terrifying.”  
  
They close the door behind her and linger in the hallway, waiting to make sure she’s really asleep. As they stand, hands joined, Dean’s thumb caresses the back of Castiel’s hand, slow and steady. They ease together, as natural as anything, and kiss softly, Dean adding a devilish lick of tongue to the tail end of the kiss.  
  
“So,” he says, sliding a hand down Castiel’s side, “did we get all the groceries put away?”  
  
“Almost all,” Castiel says. “Nothing that won’t keep for a while.”  
  
He smiles. Dean backs him through the door to the master bedroom.  It’s time for some quality togetherness. Groceries will be put away, children will awaken, and life will go on, later.  
  
And even if it’s not the life they expected to live, it is the one they’ve always wanted.

_Heaven can wait_  
 _And all I’ve got is time until the end of time_  
 _Oh, I won’t look back, I won’t look back_  
 _Let the altars shine_

  
[Acknowledgments](http://altarsshine.livejournal.com/11541.html)


	45. Notes and Acknowledgments

One day, I was bored at work and playing on tumblr, and I asked my tumblr friends to drop me a couple and an AU setting, and I would write a short one-shot ficlet. kijikun dropped in my box "Dean/Cas, arranged marriage," and I wrote a short story about Dean waiting to meet his husband, and having his nerves interrupted by a nervous stranger who really had to go to the bathroom.

All at once I had a few dozen people clamoring for me to continue, and, dazed, I wrote a sequel.

And then another sequel.

And suddenly I had a whole universe opening up to me.

Known on tumblr just as "marriagefic," the story went on for 9 months, over 40 parts, and 72,000 words. Now that it's completed, I've put it on LJ and AO3. It's the longest fic I've ever written, and I'm proud of it and humbled by the enthusiastic response. I have a lot of people to thank for this fic.

To kijikun, who first left the prompt in my box.

To everyone who left notes, reblogged, and sent me anonymous notes letting me know you were dying to read more. This world wouldn't exist without you.

Particular thanks to those of you who followed each chapter and let me know you were reading by clicking that heart. Including, but not limited to, themetaphornextdoor, ,unmelangeunique, jocicausa, unmelangeunique, ficfan, happyfunballxd, and theinfp …

To everyone on Twitter who endured my talking about it, moping about it, wondering why some chapters didn't get as many notes as others, and bragging when I did get a good response. Your tolerance is more than I deserve, but your encouragement and kind words? More than I could ever ask for. I thank you so much.

Particular thanks to destielchild, harper47, akadougal and dazedrose for being such incredible cheerleaders.

And very, very special thanks to the following four people, who followed every step of the way and let me know with tags and reactions and tweets just how much this story affected you:

picklepegg, greenamberblue, kitsuneshika and wisteriel.

And thanks to you for reading now. All my love.

_.... oh, wait, you wanted to know who he was, didn't you? The stranger in the crowd at the end, the one I didn't name. Well, he's the one character in the SPN mythos you didn't see in this story but really, really wanted to. I know who he was for me. Who was he for you?_


End file.
